


Dealer's Choice

by NicoPony



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bromance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Language, Male Friendship, Mild Sexual Content, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 117,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoPony/pseuds/NicoPony
Summary: When Gambit refuses Essex's deal to help him control his powers, the thief instead turns to his second option: Charles Xavier. A chance encounter with the beautiful Rogue gets him in the door, or rather, allows him to BREAK IN the back door. But what horrors will he find beneath the mysterious school, and will he ever escape? Or was Sinister's offer the better choice after all?
Relationships: Remy LeBeau/Rogue, Remy Lebeau & Rogue
Comments: 24
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the real-world year of 1997. What can I say, I was feeling nostalgic for a time when comic books were my LIFE.
> 
> Something of a “What If…?” tale. In 616 Marvel Universe continuity, this story falls before the Mutant Massacre events in Uncanny X-Men #210-213, X-Factor #9-11 and diverges from there. Certain story beats from continuity are echoed in this fic. Even without knowing what happened before and during the Mutant Massacre, you should be able to follow the story without any footnotes.
> 
> This is a romance disguised as an action/adventure/drama. I have never written a romance before. Even if you don’t ship ROMY, I think the love story remains true to the core of who Gambit and Rogue are, without the baggage, angst, and betrayal. I wanted to prove you can write a love story without resorting to tropes of Woman Saying No But Meaning Yes, Possessive/Jealous Aggro Male, Crazy Woman, Violent/Angry or Manipulative Man. Slut shaming or emasculation have no place here. Instead, I offer examples of masculinity and femininity, body and sex positivity, empowerment. 
> 
> There will be drama due to circumstances, personality conflicts, fear from past trauma and loss. There is no will they/won’t they. 
> 
> Oh, they will. 
> 
> Which is why this is rated M for sexual situations, coarse language. Warnings for racist/queerphobic hate speech, mental and physical abuse, assault.

August, 1997

“I have to wonder why you haven’t asked her out yet,” he was saying. “Like probably there’s something _wrong_ with you, Cajun. She’s obviously into you.”

The Cajun gave a close-lipped smile. “Well, GC, given that I’m de only male under thirty within city limits that isn’t a staggering fall-down drunk, I don’t know that it’s my natural charm and amazing good looks that have her makin’ eyes in my direction. Rather, a lack of options.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Cajun. You also have functioning genitals,” GC remarked.

“What do _you_ know about that -- ow! Don’t you be throwin’ stuff at me!”

“You could do worse’n Claire. Sweet-looking face. Pretty hair. Not to mention, she’s got an amazing pair of--.”

“Awright, GC. Ever’time I think I never want t’hear another living person speak, you manage to say something that gives me a new appreciation for de spoken word.”

“I was going to say ‘eyes’,” GC responded.

“Sure you were,” the younger man replied. “Will you make yourself useful and get me dat wrench? And don’t throw it.”

GC grunted and walked to the workbench. He selected the ratchet the Cajun would need to affix the replacement part.

“I’d have also thought you’d be done fixing your bike by now,” GC continued, handing the Cajun the tool. The younger man was seated on the oil stained garage floor beside his Harley Davidson. The bike had seen better days. However, over these last few weeks, it had come a long way from when GC had first seen it and the Cajun laying half-on half-off the highway. GC had happened upon the accident quite easily as the highway was the only way in and out of the small Arizona town of Millstone. “Or maybe you don’t want to leave this shit-hole town. Because of the someone with the amazing eyes?”

“I’m near about done,” the Cajun said absently, applying the flank-drive wrench to the bolt he was attempting to tighten. The wrench slipped and he muttered a soft: “ _Enh, zut_.”

GC lowered himself to sit beside the Cajun, sitting knee-to-knee now before the bike. GC wasn’t one to enjoy close proximity to other people, but the Cajun was one of the rare individuals who didn't make him maniacally homicidal. Well, there was that time GC had said they were sitting “Indian Style,” to which the Cajun responded that it was called “Criss Cross Applesauce” now. GC punched the Cajun so hard in the chest, he’d winded the younger man.

“Just...didn’t want to offend...your people,” the Cajun gasped and choked while rolling around on the desert sand, gripping a hand over his heart.

“Shut the fuck up about _my people,_ you stupid fuck! If you say that shit to me again, I will kick you in the nuts so hard they will come out your throat!” GC roared.

“You’re a master of de English language, _mon ami_ ,” the Cajun moaned, now laying face-down on the ground while struggling to breathe. “It’s like poetry.”

They were sitting criss-cross applesauce now, as GC took the wrench from the Cajun’s hand and adjusted the bolt for him. “There, done,” GC said after a few cranks of the wrench. “Now you can be on your merry way.”

“You awful anxious t’get rid a me,” the Cajun remarked, and turned his half-grin on to GC. “Your hand looks steadier now,” he added carefully, then braced himself for possible retaliation.

GC gripped the wrench, half tempted to smash it into the pretty boy’s smiling mouth. What was _wrong_ with this generation? The politically correct language, the touchy-feely shit? Showing empathy for other men was just _not done_. GC hadn’t even known the word ‘empathy’ until he’d heard the Cajun use it in a sentence. Didn’t the Cajun know he was supposed to drown his thoughts and pain in copious amounts of alcohol, like _real men_ do? That you did not, under pain of death, ever talk about your _feelings_?

GC chose not to strike the kid, instead took a rag from the back pocket of his jeans and needlessly wiped the wrench clean. He didn’t want to admit the Cajun was right, and that his hands did not tremble so bad as when he’d first quit drinking. So in addition to expanding his vocabulary, the Cajun had also forced him into sobriety, found him a part time job at the diner, and filled out the stupid military veterans’ benefits paperwork for him. GC had belligerently protested the unwanted assistance.

The Cajun insisted he owed GC a life debt for finding him on the highway. The Cajun might be dead, if GC hadn’t arrived to pull the kid’s bike off of his leg, an impossible feat for someone who was human, but not, as it happened, for John Greycrow. Maybe the kid would have been another piece of roadkill out in the desert, dying of dehydration, exposure, and his injuries, lying dead next to the armadillo he’d accidentally hit with his Harley. Greycrow had seen people die for stupider reasons. After he hauled the bike off the kid, he was shocked to discover the Cajun’s trapped leg wasn’t so much hamburger as one would have expected. In fact, the Cajun managed to stand on his own, and though it seemed his jeans were shredded, now he was perfectly fine. He hobbled a bit at first, but only because he said his foot had fallen asleep.

Greycrow knew that the kid was a mutant, his creepy glowing red and black eyes were a dead giveaway. Greycrow himself had heightened regenerative abilities that could heal his body in a matter of minutes. He wasn’t sure what the kid could do, if it was a healing factor that fixed up his leg or something else. What were the odds of running into another mutant in this place? If he still believed in any of that bullshit, he’d have thought that armadillo had been sent by a higher power to put the Cajun in his life. Maybe the armadillo was his fucking spirit animal.

“So, about Claire,” Greycrow said.

“Knock it off, Yenta,” the Cajun said and unfolded himself from the floor, rising in one fluid motion.

“What did you just call me?” Greycrow didn’t know what the Cajun was talking about half the time, and wasn’t sure if he should be pissed at him or not. He usually went with just being pissed.

“Matchmaker, matchmaker,” the Cajun half-sang.

Greycrow shook his head. Now the guy was singing musical theater. This kid needed a fucking male authority figure in his life. He was turning out to be some kind of a...a...Greycrow’s vocabulary failed him.

“Are you some kind of queer?” Greycrow asked.

The Cajun turned his strange eyes to the garage ceiling, hands raised in supplication, as if beseeching to a god to spare him. He made a soft dismissive sound and began returning the scattered tools on the workbench to their proper places on the wall.

“Why d’you care so much about my love life?” the Cajun asked, rattling open a stubborn drawer to replace the adjustable wrench.

“I have to live vicariously through you,” Greycrow told him. “I want to hear all the details.”

“I never kiss and tell,” the kid flashed a smile at him, straight white teeth in a scruffy face. Too pretty features hidden under a five-o’clock shadow, overlong unkempt hair, and a permanent shit-eating grin. “And b’sides. I like how things are now. Quiet-like. I can’t handle any excitement at de moment.”

Greycrow wondered what the kid was running away from, what he was hiding, or hiding from. Sometimes he found the Cajun sitting in the desert, staring at the stars overhead. That was one thing Millstone had a lot of, other than dirt and armadillos. Stars so bright and close it was like you could touch them. Sometimes Greycrow sat with him in companionable silence, back to back. Greycrow thought the kid might be a bit touched in the head, and that it might be contagious. “I guess if you’re looking for lack of excitement, you can’t beat Millstone.”

Remy washed his hands in the utility sink, scrubbing grease from his nail beds. “Thanks for helpin’ me wit’ the bike,” he said.

“Shut up, Remy,” Greycrow snapped.

“When does your shift start?” Remy asked. Greycrow suspected Remy was checking up on him, to make sure he showed up for work. He was about to punch the kid in the kidneys when Remy added: “Can I get a lift in your truck?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Greycrow told him. “Starts in ‘bout half hour. Guess I should get cleaned up some.”

“Darn those pesky food safety laws,” Remy remarked. “I’m gonna go smoke. See you in a bit.”

The kid ambled through the open garage door, long-legged loose-limbed strides that took him down the gravel driveway to the dirt road. He stood by the rusted mailbox and lit a cigarette, staring off into the bright desert landscape. Greycrow pulled the garage door down by a cord tethered to the handle, shutting out the sun and mountain views, leaving himself in darkness.

In a half hour Greycrow was as presentable as he ever got. Remy was in the passenger seat of the truck, his arm out the window, hand spread to catch the air current as they drove down the highway. He had a pair of sunglasses on, concealing his eyes. They passed a liquor store and the gas station. There was a run down motel with a 50’s era light up sign in it’s cracked asphalt parking lot. The diner was across from the motel. Greycrow pulled into the diner’s parking lot and parked in the rear of the building.

“You plannin’ on getting something to eat?” Greycrow asked.

“Sure, what’s de special?”

“Same shit, different day,” Greycrow said dryly and hauled himself from the vehicle.

Remy followed him through the staff entrance and into the rear of the diner. There was a grill and a fryolator where the cook could stand and look out through a window into the dining room beyond. A couple of steel commercial freezers stood by the swinging doors to the diner floor. A food prep counter and dishwashing station sat on floors done in smooth red brick tiles. Another employee was tossing various bagged frozen fries and meat patties onto the prep counter. Remy passed through the swinging doors into the diner and took a seat at a barstool in front of Greycrow’s window. Greycrow turned on the grill and the ventilation hood. When the grill surface seemed hot enough, he started scraping it clean.

Claire appeared in the window, her back to Greycrow. She was tall and thin, skin a deep tan, a long black ponytail hung in a thick rope down her back. She was off the Navajo Rez, which was some hour long drive away. Greycrow had to guess that like Remy, she was also looking for a change of scenery.

“Hey, Remy,” Claire said. She put a glass of water down in front of him. “You hungry?”

“Y’know me,” he said, smiling at her. “I can always eat.”

Claire turned to look at Greycrow, big black eyes in a pretty face. Before she could ask he told her: “I got it.”

There were a few other people in the diner for early lunch, but it was mostly quiet except for the sound of country western coming through the overhead speakers. There was a game on the television screen that hung on the wall behind the counter. It was muted. As Greycrow made up a cheeseburger and french fries, the light from the hot sun sliding against white paint and chrome momentarily blinded him as a long white Caddilac pulled into the parking lot outside. Through the half-closed blinds that blocked out the worst of the Arizona sun, Greycrow could see an older man extricate himself from his posh car. He straightened his light-colored suit. The man cast a disdainful glance about him through aviator sunglasses before walking to the diner door. The bell over the door rang overhead as he passed through.

“Sit where you like,” Claire called, as she handed Remy his plate. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The man nodded at her with a slow smile and sat himself in a booth behind Remy. Remy had watched silently as the car had pulled into the parking lot. He turned back to his food and started on his french fries.

“Enh, GC,” Remy called, his mouth half-full of fries, “what you put on this burger?”

“Just cheese, Cajun,” Greycrow answered.

“You lack an imagination, mon frère,” Remy remarked and retrieved a bottle of ketchup from the counter.

“Next time: armadillo,” Greycrow said.

“Did I hear you say ‘Cajun’?” the older man in the booth asked. Remy swiveled on his stool to look at the man. He gave him a vague smile and nod, and was about to turn back to his plate when the man continued. “Only I’m over from Louisiana way myself,” the man said.

Claire handed the man a menu. “Can I get you a water?” she asked.

“I’ll have a helping of whatever you’re serving, darlin’,” the man told her. She smiled and gave a little laugh, but when she turned to proceed to the counter, she gave an exaggerated roll of the eyes and opened her mouth as if she were about to gag, an expression only Remy and Greycrow could see. They both grinned at her.

“In the oil business,” the man continued as he looked over the menu. “Capitol Operating Group. Y’all ever hear of ‘fracking’? Coming to this here state soon, I wager. Probably by next year. Got us a site out on the Navajo rez, you hear of it? At least this godforsaken place is good for _something_.”

Claire returned with a glass of water. “Maybe,” she said. “What can I get you?”

“Well, let’s see,” the man said, leaning back in the booth, taking his time to monopolize Claire’s. He looked her up and down. She was wearing a pair of short jean shorts, a white v-neck tee-shirt and her black apron. She held a notepad and pen, waiting expectantly. “What all do you recommend?”

“Greycrow makes a decent burger,” she told him.

“Greycrow?” the man said, a hint of incredulity in his voice. He looked through the diner window. Seeing Greycrow’s glowering countenance, he gave a sort of smirking sniff. “Well, _how_ -dee.”

Greycrow could feel Remy’s eyes on him, even though they were shaded by his sunglasses. Remy’s mouth was pressed into a grim line. Greycrow could feel his own blood boil. Remy shook his head slightly, a warning.

Claire moved behind the counter and tucked the man’s order into the clip over the window. “Burger, fries, side of slaw,” she told him. “Fracking,” she muttered so only Greycrow could hear her over the sound of the vents. “He can go frack _himself_.”

“What business you in, young man?” the older man continued, seeming not to have detected Remy’s absolute disinterest in communicating with him.

Remy dropped his half eaten burger onto his plate with an exhaled sound of disgust through his nose. He turned fully round to look at the man. “Acquisitions and divestitures,” Remy told him.

The older man looked surprised. “Oh, corporate development? Well, that’s...interestin’. How’d you get into M&A? You can’t be out of business school yet. What are you, ‘bout twenty?”

“About,” Remy answered, he turned back to his food. He added: “I was an intern.”

“Ah, that’s a good way to get in the door, isn’t it?” the man added. “Started myself out on the fields. Lucrative way to make money when you’re a young man. Lots of travel. Of course, it’s mainly to out-of-the-way places like this one.” The man gestured out the window to the landscape beyond.

“Does get a bit lonely,” the man blathered on as Claire approached his table with his order. It was all Greycrow could do not to spit in it. The man looked at Claire appraisingly. “Man out on the road alone. Gets to needing some company. Say, honey, what’s your name?”

Claire’s face was a bland pleasant mask. She tapped her name tag pinned to her shirt. The man reached out and pinched the tag between a thumb and forefinger. She flinched back a bit. “Claire...what a pretty name. French, isn’t it? You don’t look French t’me.” The heel of the man’s palm was nearer to Claire’s breast than she would prefer, but held by her tag as she was, she couldn’t back away immediately.

“My father was,” she told him, and carefully moved his hand away. “Enjoy your meal.” She turned to walk away. The man watched her appreciatively.

“You done, Rem?” Claire asked him. “You didn’t finish. Did GC overcook your burger again?”

“No, burger’s fine,” Remy told her. “Lost my appetite.”

“You from the rez, girl?” the man asked. “Only you’re so much prettier than those other girls I see there.”

“Only those girls are probably my cousins,” she said coldly.

The man held his hands up in mock surrender. “No need to get all upset, girl. Just trying to pay you a compliment is all.”

Claire retrieved a rag and a bucket to clean tables that didn’t need to be cleaned on the far side of the diner. The man continued to talk through his meal. Greycrow furiously chopped some sliced meat for a steak sandwich with his spatula, imagining the man’s face on the grill. He’d had less reason for murdering people than what this stupid white rich man had given him so far.

Though finished with his meal, Remy continued to sit at the counter, probably waiting to see if Greycrow would behave himself. Greycrow finished the steak sandwich order and banged on the bell. “Order up,” he said, his voice tight with hatred.

“Not much of a warm reception ‘round these parts,” the man was saying. “Not like back home, enh, young man? Louisiana is the last bastion of Southern hospitality before miles and miles of...whatever you call this.”

Remy hopped off his stool. “I’m goin’ out for a smoke,” he said to Claire and Greycrow.

Greycrow watched the kid leave through the front door, sending the bell ringing. Remy stood against the front facade of the building, looking at the white man’s white car while lighting a cigarette.

The man made a derisive sound, unimpressed with Remy’s lack of politeness. “Coonass,” he muttered. Greycrow turned and hurled his spatula into the rear of the kitchen, pots and pans clanged loudly.

“You all right, GC?” Claire called and walked down the length of the diner, passing the man as she did so. As she walked, he reached out and tugged her long ponytail, drawing her short. She turned and pulled it from his grip. “Excuse me,” she said. “Please don’t do that.”

“I like your hair,” the man told her, leaning forward. “Real thick. A man could lose a hand in that hair.”

“Yes, well it runs in the family,” she said and began to turn. He stopped her again, putting his hand on her forearm.

“Hey, now don’t run off. I’m trying t’talk to you,” when Claire stood still, he released her arm. He leaned back in the booth again. He smiled coyly. “Y’all got any dessert? Like maybe some pie?”

“Fresh out of pie,” she told him. “Sorry.”

“Well, maybe next time I come in here, you can serve me up some pie,” the man suggested. “And maybe a smile, girl. No sense havin’ a pretty girl like you have a face looking so sour.”

Claire ripped a ticket from her notebook and tossed it onto the table before the man. “Here’s your bill. You can pay at the counter.”

“Here,” the man said, taking out a pair of twenties from his billfold. “How ‘bout I pay now?” As she once again tried to turn away, he tucked the bills into the back pocket of her shorts. “You can keep the change,” he said and patted the bills.

Greycrow saw red. This man was going to die. It seemed suddenly as if time stretched and slowed. Greycrow pulled his apron off with steady hands, hung it on a hook on the wall. He began walking at an even pace towards the swinging doors to the dining room. The man was standing. He walked to the front entrance, passed through the door. The bells jingled slow and dull. Greycrow was now in the dining room. Outside, the man passed Remy to walk to his car. Greycrow followed and passed through the front door as well. Claire called after him, but her voice seemed to be coming to him as if through water. In the parking lot, Remy was pushing himself from the diner wall. His eyes passed over Greycrow, putting out a hand to stop him.

“Hey,” Remy called to the man. He had pulled open the driver’s side door. The man was half in, half out of his vehicle. When Remy called, the man stood, his hand still curled around the side of the door. “Hey, I’m trying to talk t’you,” Remy said, imitating what the man had told Claire.

“What do you want, boy?” the man said irritably.

Greycrow reached behind his back for his firearm, where it was hidden under his shirt in the waistband of his jeans.

“I wanted to tell you, you should smile,” Remy told him, right before kicking the side panel of the white car, denting it with his boot and crushing the man’s hand between the doorframe and the door well. The man let out a scream. Time seemed to resume its normal speed.

Claire ran from the diner into the parking lot. “Remy! What the hell! Stop it!”

The man was clutching his smashed hand. “You little rat bastard! I’m calling the po-lice!”

“Oh my god,” Claire was saying. “I’m so sorry, sir. Let me see your hand, you poor thing. Don’t you worry about him. He’s got _mental problems_ ,” she glared at Remy. “Get the hell out of here, you dumbass!”

Remy had already turned and was walking away.

“Let’s get you some ice,” Claire was saying as she led the man back into the diner.

Greycrow pursued Remy. The kid was standing by the truck. He was bent over, his hands were on his knees. When Greycrow approached, he could see the kid was pale. Or maybe not pale, but glowing as if from some internal light, like a cheap light-up Christmas decoration, the kind made of tacky plastic that sat on lawns. Remy seemed to be struggling to draw a steady breath.

“Why did you do that?” Greycrow said. “I was going to kill that--.”

“I know,” Remy said, then quoted in a cool monotone: “‘ _I can’t let you do that, Dave_.’ Now he’s just hurt and not dead, and you’re not going to prison.” Remy was gasping now.

“What the hell is happening to you?”

“I got to get out to the desert,” Remy said. He staggered forward a few paces. He seemed to be glowing brighter.

Greycrow rushed forward even as Remy tried to wave him away. Greycrow picked Remy up and pulled him into a fireman’s carry. He began to run into the desert at a ground-eating pace; with an economy of movement, running like a shadow leaving no sound or trace. Remy groaned.

“You got to get away from me,” he panted. “You’ll be killed.”

“Little further,” Greycrow grunted, adjusting his grip on Remy’s lanky form.

“Anh! John, you better put me down now!” Remy said, a rising panic in his voice. Greycrow might have felt scared, though he’d never admit to it. He’d never heard the Cajun sound frightened before.

Greycrow came to a stumbling halt and unceremoniously dumped Remy over his head and onto the ground. Remy let out a little woof of sound as he sprawled onto the rocky desert floor. He was definitely getting brighter, it hurt to look directly at him. He also had grown incredibly hot. Greycrow was forced to drop him or continue to be burned.

In spite of the brightness, Greycrow could still see the kid’s eyes were impossibly dark. Remy looked up at him from where he sat in the dirt. “Run away,” he said.

Greycrow didn’t need to be told twice. He took a few hurried steps backward, then turned and ran. He’d made it a few yards before there was an enormous, yet almost gentle sound, like that of a match put to a gas burner. It was followed by an intense explosion that blew Greycrow off his feet to fly through the air for several yards. He shielded his head and neck as debris rained down on him. When he turned to look back, it was to see a rising mushroom cloud blooming in the sky.

“Holy fuck,” Greycrow said.

He sat and watched the sky, staring as the cloud began to disperse. Slowly, he climbed to his feet. Bits of dirt and debris fell from his clothes and hair. Greycrow began to walk back to where he’d left the Cajun. He fully expected him to be obliterated. Instead, he found the kid about where he left him, sitting criss-cross applesauce in the bottom of a crater. He was also completely naked. Greycrow skidded down the side of the crater to approach Remy. He could feel the residual heat radiating from the smoking rocks and dirt around him. What might have been a bird once fell from the sky to land with a thump on the ground. Remy looked at it.

“Minor casualties,” he observed.

“Remy, what in the fuck was that?” Greycrow couldn’t even raise his voice to yell, he was so dumbfounded.

“You okay?” Remy asked him.

“Jesus H. Christ kid you just blew the fuck up and you’re asking me how _I am_!? What in the hell is wrong with you!? Are you some kind of mental moron!?”

“There you go again, Shakespeare,” Remy said. “Another fine sonnet.”

“Agh!” Greycrow did scream at him then. “If you weren’t -- I could _kill_ you!”

“I think it might have t’come to that, John,” Remy told him.

“Stop fucking calling me ‘John,’” he spat and kicked a clod of dirt at Remy.

“I’m serious,” Remy said. “I don’t think I can live like this. I mean, maybe _I_ could, but not everyone else around me.”

Greycrow just gaped at him. “Shut up! Who gives a shit about everyone else? You get to feeling like a nuclear bomb again, you can run out here and just blow your load.”

Remy shook his head. “Hurt enough people on purpose these last few years,” Remy said. “Some deserved it. Some didn’t. Kinda made myself sick about it. Don’t really want to hurt anyone anymore. Not on purpose, not on accident either.”

“I’m _not_ going to kill you,” Greycrow said. “There’s about seven and a half billion people out there I’d rather kill than you.”

“You really know how t’make a date feel special,” Remy told him and smiled. “I’m blushing.”

“You are some special kind of stupid,” Greycrow told him.

“Greycrow, please,” Remy asked. “I need your help.”

“No!”

Remy sighed. “I guess I could find somebody else. Know plenty of killers. Assassins, murderers. They’d take no small amount of pleasure in killin’ me, that’s de truth.”

Greycrow was incensed. He was running out of adjectives to describe how mad he was. He stomped up the crater, clawing handfuls of rocks and sand to clamber to the lip and back onto the desert floor. He pulled his firearm from behind his back. He turned and aimed it at the Cajun.

“Goodbye, Remy,” he said.

“‘Bye, John,” Remy said.

The gun discharged with a sharp crack. Impossibly, Remy sat motionless. Again there seemed to be a sensation of moving in slow motion. Greycrow could see the fired round fly toward his friend’s skull, then the round made a sharp turn, arced across the kid’s brow to light up like a tiny comet. The bullet went around the kid’s head like a halo and then flew up into the sky. It exploded and once again, Greycrow found himself thrown to the ground by the force of the blast.

He sat up. Slid back down into the crater. He approached Remy and sat down behind him, back to back, folding his legs under him.

“So that happened,” Remy remarked. “Why do I get de feeling that that could’ve gone _a lot_ worse than it did? So, apparently, I can’t be killed. Now what?”

Greycrow sighed. His hands rested on his knees. One hand still held the firearm. “I think you have two choices,” he finally told the Cajun.

“Two? That’s two more than I thought I had,” Remy replied.

Greycrow nodded, even though Remy couldn’t see him. “Right, listen. I heard of someone… some kind of professor or something in New York State. He’s got a school. He might be able to help you.”

“What’s a school teacher gonna do about my...incontinence problem?”

“He’s not like a school teacher. He’s like a doctor for mutant head cases,” Greycrow told him.

“So a psychologist or psychiatrist or something? For insane mutants?” Remy asked. “School must be packed tight. I don’t think I’ve met a mutie who isn’t plumb loco.”

Greycrow chuckled, lowering his head. “You got that right.”

“Okay, what’s choice two?” Remy asked.

“Choice two...is some other kind of doctor. Like for genes or something. He’s out west, Seattle is what I think I heard.”

“So we’re talking genes like ‘Mendel,’ and not jeans like ‘acid-wash’?”

“I swear kid, between the accent and whatever it is you’re talking about…I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re saying.”

“Please tell me more about the gene-splicing _gene_ -ius,” Remy prompted.

“So, he’s a surgeon. Or a butcher. I have heard mixed reports,” Greycrow told him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have health insurance,” Remy said. “How much is this going to cost me?”

“Plenty, I bet,” Greycrow said.

“Do you think I have a mental problem, or a physical problem?” Remy asked conversationally. “I know you’re going to say I’m nuts, but I’m asking for serious.”

“I think your head is screwed on crooked,” Greycrow told him. “But I don’t think you’re completely mental. You’ve got some kind of control issue, like maybe a valve isn’t sealed proper.”

“C’est ça,” Remy said, his voice distant as he thought. “Maybe a tune up and realignment, then.”

“Could be,” Greycrow answered.

“Awright,” Remy said, climbing to his feet. “So...dis guy’s name I’m looking for? Not Doctor Who. Maybe Doctor _What_?”

“Essex,” Greycrow told him and stood. He brushed the dust from the seat of his jeans. He glanced over his shoulder at Remy. He asked: “You’re not going to go off again, are you? Blow up?”

“I don’t think so,” Remy said. “Long as I don’t get too riled, I’m usually okay.”

“Good, because I am not carrying your naked ass anywhere. Where are you going? Hey, don’t go up that crater in _front_ of me! I do _not_ need to see your bare ass at eye level!”

“Ah, GC, I could listen to your lyrical prose all day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy’s Random References, A Catalog of Internal Musings  
> Ch 1  
> Yenta/Matchmaker - Fiddler On The Roof  
> I can’t let you do that Dave - 2001 Space Odyssey   
> Mendel - Father of Genetics


	2. Chapter 2

September, 1997

Remy found himself cold and wet in Seattle, Washington. He was spending a good portion of his time alone, in an abandoned theater in a neglected district. He’d had to chase off a few members of the homeless population, not because he begrudged them a roof over their heads, but that he couldn’t risk accidentally blowing them to Kingdom Come. The city had a serious housing crisis on its hands that only grew as the West Coast dot.com boom continued to explode. Combined with a lack of mental care and drug addiction facilities, the city was filled with abandoned and neglected humans that caused complaints from the people who had to step over them to get to work at Microsoft. Remy found the situation maddening, which was not helpful to his current troubles.

Annoyingly enough, Seattle had somehow become _the_ scene in recent years. Remy had no use for the disaffected apathy pandered by the grunge trend. It was ingested by bored, unimpressed kids who had the good fortune to be born in a situation where they could afford to ignore the world around them. Remy’d experienced enough of that attitude in the last three years to last himself a lifetime. And unfortunately for him, though he’d hardened his heart and had emotions beaten out of him, and was given every opportunity to see evidence to the contrary, Remy still held hope in people. Faith that people would do the right thing if given half a chance. He had to believe that, otherwise there was little chance for himself indeed.

He made no secret of asking after this Essex person in every side alley meeting place, every dark corner of the city. Eventually, this doctor would reveal himself, and Remy could get the measure of the man. He really didn’t like going into this situation blind.

He was contemplating whether or not he should hit up the local Hellfire Club branch, which he was loath to do as the odds of him encountering someone he knew there increased exponentially. They were exactly the kind of people he needed to avoid, lest he work himself into a lather that started with him ranting about corporate greed and ended with him blowing up The New York Stock Exchange. After the closing bell, of course. He didn’t actually want to kill anyone, just destroy the institution. Which, if it came to that and this whole thing with Essex didn’t pan out, seemed like a pretty good use for his uncontrollable bursts of explosive kinetic energy that seemed to be bordering the edge of atomic bomb territory. Remy suspected he might be becoming an anarchist. Really, he was an egalitarian, and considered thieving and wealth redistribution his contribution to evening out the overwhelming unfairness he’d witnessed.

He was sitting, smoking, burrowed into his jacket, staring at the crumbling walls of the theater, on which once hung a variety of silver stars. They were tarnished now, as the moisture from outside seeped into the wood, the upholstery, and curtains left behind to rot. He felt a slight change in the cold, humid atmosphere and wondered if one of the housing challenged locals had snuck in through the side door. When he turned his head, it was to see a man standing backstage, neatly dressed in all black so that he seemed to melt into the shadows. The man’s long narrow face, pale skin, and expressionless features put Remy in mind of a certain television show.

_You rang...?_

Stop that now, Remy scolded himself.

_They’re creepy and they're kooky…mysterious and --_

No jokes, this is for serious.

“I was made to understand that you are looking for me, young man,” the dark man intoned.

“Essex?” Remy asked. _Lurch?_ his brain said.

Remy felt a sensation that might have been a brush of telepathy or the subtle touch of telekinesis. That ratcheted his anxiety up to an eleven. He had to maintain composure, to not get so nervous that he set himself off. He already felt that glowing feeling in his gut. The man canted his head slightly, looking askance at Remy. His dark eyes narrowed slightly.

“Yes,” he finally replied. “May I ask the nature of your inquiry?”

Remy shifted from where he’d been perched on the edge of the stage, placed one foot on the stage and stood precariously on the ledge. One foot on, one foot off. Took a last drag off his cigarette, and flicked it away where it dissolved into sparks. “I heard you were some kind of doctor. A geneticist, yeah?” He took a few tentative steps along the edge of the stage, moving himself slightly nearer to Essex. But not too close.

The man nodded slightly. “And what need does a thief have for a geneticist?” the man asked.

_Okay, so he has some idea who I am,_ Remy thought. “Am I wrong in assuming you might be a geneticist that specializes in mutants?”

“You are not wrong,” the man replied. “And may I surmise you are pursuing my services in order to either remove, suppress, or control your mutant abilities?”

“Remove, _certainement pas_. But I might be experiencing periods of loss of control,” Remy said. “Symptoms include dizziness, hot flashes, intangibility, and spontaneous combustion. I was directed to consult a physician.”

There was that look again, the barely there flash of either confusion or irritation.

“Do you have any speculations as to why you are unable to control your abilities?” Essex said, a tinge of disdain in his voice.

“I suspect I was dropped on my head as a child,” Remy replied.

Remy got the impression that this Essex person was not enjoying their exchange in the least. Remy suspected that the man was probably used to incurring some kind of fear or awe in people. Not that Remy wasn’t fearful, he was in fact, quite terrified. But Remy had a habit, that when offered a stick and presented with a bear, he would inevitably conduct a great deal of poking. And when he became increasingly frightened, words tended to come flying out of his mouth at an alarming rate. All of them being inappropriate to the situation.

“What would you propose to offer in exchange for the ability to control your powers?” Essex asked.

“I can offer my very particular skills in thievery and general trouble-making,” Remy told him. “Also, I make a killer roux. I could make you up a pot of gumbo.”

Essex chose to ignore the latter statement. “I am not interested in procuring jewelry, or artwork, or mystical artifacts, or tomes of the occult.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Remy said. “If we’re negotiating terms then, does this mean you can actually...fix my problem?”

“I am more than capable,” the man replied. “It would not take more than an hour, to make the proper...adjustments.”

Remy was not reassured by this profession of skill in the least. It made him even leerier. Anything that came easily was usually not worth having. “And what do you propose I do for you? For your help with my powers?”

“I would request the commitment of your services for no less than a year,” the man said. “In enlisting the aid and directing various acquaintances of yours to conduct a mission. One involving the...removal of misplaced mutant research.”

Remy could barely hear, for all the alarm bells sounding in his mind. _Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!_ And after having been indentured in servitude for the last three years, he was not too keen on continuing that line of people management. “What acquaintances would those be? I mean, if you’re interested, I happen to know a single lady into goth type--.”

Essex cut a hand through the air, a sharp gesture demanding silence. Remy thought he might be getting under the man’s pasty skin. “In order for me to continue my research into the great mutant experiment, I require the services of certain individuals able to operate in secrecy and expediency.”

“Sneaky and speedy, got it.”

“Individuals who do not balk at unpleasant and difficult tasks. Who ask few questions. Given your short yet storied career, I imagine you have made numerous connections.”

Remy’s right leg swung back and forth over the open space between the stage edge and the orchestra floor. “I’ve recently made adjustments to my career goals. And as it turns out, I seem to have misplaced my Rolodex.”

“You do not understand the gravity of your situation, Remy LeBeau...or _Gambit_ , as you have so named yourself,” Essex said, and at this Remy was given pause. “Your powers will only increase in strength, and lack of control...in severity. Your inability to control even your thoughts from random and nonsensical diversions only worsen your situation. I ask you, what choice do you believe you have? At best, you have a chance at living a life spent entirely alone in constant terror. At worst, oblivion in the destruction you will no doubt cause...potentially to the entire planet.”

That glowing sensation was increasing in his gut, spreading up to his diaphragm, pushing against his lungs. Remy drew a shaking breath. Essex smiled cruelly at him.

“Or, for your cooperation and coordination, I would provide you with a different life. One where you may rejoin the random and chaotic world in which you thrive. One where you rejoin, perhaps...your family?”

Okay, so Essex made him blink. Remy tried to swallow the sensation of energy pushing up against his throat. Remy had spent a few years on the streets as a child. He had a sense of which people to avoid, the ones that gave you that instinctual _not-quite-right_ feeling in your gut. This man he looked at now was exactly the kind of person you ran from, screaming and windmilling your arms in terror. Remy’s instincts were telling him this guy was Bad News, and that was a major understatement.

There _had_ to be another choice.

“I’ll think it over,” Remy hedged. “You gave me somethin’ to chew on.”

“You will not be afforded the luxury of time,” Essex told him. “You will choose _now_.”

Remy had a brief flash of what his life might be like should he accept Essex’s offer. A year didn’t seem so long compared to the three he’d just endured. And what did Essex want? For him to destroy some documents, some lab somewhere? He could do that, no problem, and probably solo too. But he knew, if it was anything like the torment he’d recently escaped, he’d carry that time with him for the rest of his life. “I choose my freedom over service t’you,” Remy told him. “I wish you bad luck on your great experiment. Hope you never make your love connections. And misfortune in your every endeavor.” With a little flourish he added: “And so, I bid you _adieu_.”

“You will come to regret your choice,” Essex said. He was cold and expressionless, and all the more threatening than if he’d become enraged. “You will at least live long enough for that.”

With this pronouncement made, Essex disappeared into the black gloom of the backstage shadows. Remy let out the breath he’d been holding and the glowing feeling subsided somewhat. Remy felt a chill, as if someone had stepped over his grave. He _knew_ that if he’d chosen to leave with Essex, he would live to regret it. Now, he had to face something perhaps even more frightening: the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy’s Random References, A Catalog of Internal Musings  
> Ch 2  
> Lurch/Addams Family  
> Danger Will Robinson - Lost in Space


	3. Chapter 3

October, 1997

Salem Center in New York State’s Westchester County was, in Remy’s opinion, a whole lot of nothing. Passing through the area on his Harley, he encountered fields full of horses, sprawling homes and farmhouses from the 18th and 19th centuries, and fences and bridges made of rough-hewn fieldstone. The streets in the small towns, if you could call them towns and not just small assemblages of local businesses, were flanked by red brick sidewalks and black iron lamp posts. Outside of what passed for civilization were rolling hills of leafed trees skirting a reservoir of chilly looking blue-gray water. It wasn’t so bad, riding leisurely down the curving roads, looking at the scenery. The trees here were unlike anything he’d ever seen before, as it was early October and the green maples, birches, and oaks were now edged with red, auburn and gold. Later he would find out that tourists actually took vacations just to look at  _ leaves _ . It occurred to Remy that if watching leaves change color in autumn was what passed for entertainment, then what the heck did people do with the other three seasons in a year?

He had to concede that the area had some appeal, the same way the Arizona desert, even with all its sand and armadillos, had a serene beauty in the ridged blue purple hills, red-yellow dirt, and towering green cacti. Not to mention the enormity of the sky, blue-white at day, and at night, blue-black with swaths of stars. And it was just as well that Salem Center and its environs were quiet, because ever since his encounter with Dr. Essex, Remy’s gut burned like a banked fire, just waiting to be stirred into sparks, then true flames. 

Ever the optimist (or delusional fool, perhaps), Remy looked for the good in his situation. The isolation, while not his idea of a good time, was what he needed. There was no shortage of farmers’ markets, so that was something, even if they were prohibitively expensive. Horses were pretty. And the area had a very nice library, which was where he was spending the majority of his time.

The library was situated on a corner in one of the picturesque towns, the largest building around. It was a Federal style building perched at the top of a slight hill, with a broad cement staircase leading to the main entrance. Three wings extended to the north, southeast, and southwest of the white central building, which was round like the turret of a castle. The front doors were flanked by columns in the Ionic style, the windows along each of the red brick wings were made of cut and stained glass. At street level, one could enter the building from the lower level through a pair of double doors, which is how Remy first approached the building.

He stepped through the doors to find himself in the children’s section of the library. There was a lot going on and at first; total sensory overload. There were colorful carpets and furnishings, brightly colored walls covered in childrens’ artwork, a bubbling fish tank of tropical fish. Remy wandered in, bemused. A puppet show was going on in the corner, and several children were interacting with the puppets. It seemed they were all pretending to cast magic spells. Remy had heard of some new book about a boy wizard that had recently been published. Apparently, this was today’s puppet show theme.

Remy was approached by an older frizzled-haired librarian. “Can I help you find something?” she asked.

Remy was stooped to look into the fish tank. He straightened and asked: “D’you have a copy of that book?” he asked, pointing his chin in the direction of the puppet show.

The librarian smiled apologetically. “Not right now, but I could put you on the waiting list. Though,” here she leaned closer and put her hand to the side of her mouth as if to convey dire secrecy, “I would recommend you  _ buy  _ yourself a personal copy. Don’t tell anyone here I said that.”

Amused, Remy replied: “Your secret’s safe with me. So, this show over here doesn’t have any spoilers in it, does it?”

“You’re going to want to leave before the second act!”

“I’d best get to getting then. Hey, can you point me to information?”

“Top of the stairs, in the central lobby. You can’t miss it.”

Remy nodded his thanks and went to the upper floor. The woman at the information desk pointed him towards the quiet study area as he requested, but also told him where he could find the Reference, Fiction, and Nonfiction sections. She was quite helpful. Remy didn’t know why he was of the mindset that the people of New England were cold and aloof, these folks seemed plenty nice. The north-facing wing held the private study carrels and a newly set up computer lab. Remy had had limited experience with the personal computers that were becoming more and more readily accessible. There were six here, maintained by a younger man with a freckled complexion and ginger colored moustache. The man, who identified himself as Curtis, opened up a schedule book. 

“How long do you think you’d want to reserve the study carrel?” Curtis asked.

“Two-three weeks, maybe?” Remy suggested.

“Let’s just make it a month,” Curtis said. “I put you in carrel five. It’s the only one with a window. Your name?”

“John,” Remy said. “John Grey.”

Remy thanked the man, accepted the key, and stepped into the small wooden cubicle and into absolute privacy. He hung his coat and bag on the hooks provided. There was a large desk, a chair, and a corkboard affixed to one of the wooden walls. 

_ Not too bad, this’ll be just fine as a base of operations _ , Remy thought. Because unlike the nightmare of Seattle, Remy was not going to go into this next adventure without first getting to know exactly what he was getting himself into. 

He began with the computers because he’d heard something about the World Wide Web and an “information superhighway.” Remy was trying to reserve judgement, but thought it likely the internet was going to be a bust. Curtis showed him how to open a web browser called Netscape Navigator. Remy was instructed that if he knew the web address he could type it into a text bar. Otherwise he’d have to use a “web crawler” called Altavista, and perform a keyword search. It was all very interesting. As a first foray into internet exploration, Remy typed in “New Orleans Saints,” and was disappointed to see the scores for the season so far. “Ah, we’re already getting creamed this year!” he groused. Then he saw that the New England Patriots were once again winning. “Booo!” he told the computer screen and saluted it with a doubly rude gesture. 

Curtis took on an air of mock offense and strode away, hands in the air. “See if I help you anymore!” he announced.

Remy performed a search for Charles Xavier, a man as it happened, he’d vaguely heard of before. Remy found a news article about the man from last year, that he’d been attacked and severely beaten by a group of anti-mutant protestors. It wasn’t difficult for Remy to put together that the Columbia professor Greycrow had spoken of also headed the elite school here in New York State, by the name of The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters. 

The last mention of Xavier was from Magneto’s trial, several months ago. During his indenturement, Remy had been made to watch the televised event, knowing that doing so would only serve to rattle Remy, infuriate him. It seemed to Remy that Magneto had turned himself over to the authorities not to atone for his sins. If he were truly repentant, then why was self-defense put forward as his defense strategy? From his personal island, declaring himself the world's savior, the man had provoked attack and retaliated, sinking a submarine to the bottom of the sea, raising a volcano to destroy a city. No, the trial was yet another way for Magneto to grandstand before a global audience, to make justifications for his actions. No verdict had been handed down, the man had vanished in the melee of anti-mutant riots and pro-mutant protests.

Remy did not find any more recent articles about the professor; it seemed the man had disappeared off the planet. He did find a webpage for the school, which had a single pixelated image of the front facade of the building, the logo, an address, and phone number. There was a brief biography about Charles Xavier. There was no information about teachers or staff, admissions or classes. Granted, most websites Remy found were completely rudimentary or entirely filled with dancing cartoon hamsters for some reason. Remy started a list in his notebook. At the top he wrote the school name, location and phone number. Below that: Xavier. If he was some kind of head doctor for mutants, then perhaps he was a telepath. Remy put that next to the man’s name, followed by a question mark.

He spent the next few hours consulting the index to the back issues of local newspapers, then requesting the microfiche reels from the genealogist on staff. Sitting before the microfiche reader gave him vertigo, and he hoped for a day when all this stuff would just be on the internet (he had decided the World Wide Web might be worthwhile after all). Still, he was able to recall a few more articles about Charles Xavier and the Xavier School. It seemed the school was prone to fires and random explosions. There was a longer biography on Xavier in the  _ Who’s Who in America _ book in Reference. It didn’t give too many more details than the website, but it did mention a colleague, a Doctor Henry McCoy. 

As it turned out Dr. McCoy had six advanced degrees in various sciences, including biochemistry and bioinformatics and genetics. And the man wasn’t yet twenty-seven years old. Next to McCoy’s name, Remy wrote ‘Super Genius.’ McCoy had quite a few published academic articles which Remy requested from the reference librarian. She informed him it may take three to five days to obtain the articles. Remy was content to wait, there were other venues to pursue.

At the county auditor office, he requested the parcel information for the address he’d found on the website: 1407 Graymalkin Lane. It listed the property size and sketch of the building and outbuildings, additions, and original construction date. The original house had been built in 1898. Additions were made in subsequent years beginning in 1947. Remy returned to the library’s genealogical section to consult several old city directories for the names of architectural firms in the area. The permit indexes and land surveys he found narrowed down his options. As it turned out, the architecture firm responsible for the house additions was now dissolved. Fortunately, their records could be found at the state archives. That was a longer trip clear out to Albany, but well worth it. From the archives there Remy now had several iterations of the Xavier’s school floor plans and each elevation; top floor, second floor, ground floor, and two sub-floors. He took photos of the drawings with a snazzy new digital camera he’d procured. No more film, who knew? Finally, at the North Salem Historical Society, he found a vertical file of aerial survey photographs from the 1950s to the mid-1980s. While the school itself wasn’t the focus of the photos, he was able to cobble together a full bird’s-eye view of the house as it stood over the years.

All of these puzzle pieces he arranged carefully in his study carrel. A local copy shop had printed his digital photos in full size. He stuck the ground floor plan onto the cork board. In a little more than a week, he had enough information to start planning his infiltration of this school, to do some poking around inside and see what was what. Now that he had all the paper records, he should probably get a visual on the situation over on Graymalkin. 

While Remy would have been content to simply live inside the library with its quiet rooms, rustling of pages, gentle tapping of keyboards, and scent of printed paper, he was not going to be permitted to sleep on the floor of the study carrel. He sweet-talked an older woman into the short-term rental of the small efficiency apartment over her detached garage. There was a wooden staircase on the garage exterior leading up to the loft apartment. The loft itself was pleasant enough, filled with cozy cast-off furniture. The bed was situated at the front of the apartment under the window dormer, hemmed on three of four sides by the surrounding walls. At his apartment, he changed into a gray hoodie featuring the name of a local state college, running shorts and shoes, and stuffed his too-long hair into a knit beanie. Though the day was overcast, he had little choice but to wear sunglasses. He had a Walkman and headphones to complete his disguise: college student out for a jog.

Remy didn’t have much in the way of jogging music, but the librarian in the audio visual section recommended a new album by Alanis Morrissette. The first few songs sounded angry, which was great because when someone else was angry, that made Remy feel less so by way of vicarious justification. He hopped down the wooden staircase from the apartment and began jogging down the street, heading west towards Graymalkin Lane. After sitting so long in the library in peaceable comfort, it felt good to be moving again. Maybe a little too good. He struggled to keep himself at an even pace and not a full out sprint. 

After a half-hour he found the access road that would take him past the school. The building wasn’t readily visible from the street, the lower floors hidden by the slight rise in the land. The school was fronted by a gated black wrought-iron fence. From what he could make of the roofline and dormers, the house had a decidedly institutional air, not unlike the asylum in  _ One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest _ . __

Unfortunately, the school wasn’t so polite as to post what kind of security system they employed on a handy sign out front. He jogged past the school and rounded the cul de sac to run past again in the opposite direction. Remy didn’t see a single student. He’d seen a gravel drive around the back perimeter of the property that he thought to take next, but as he ran he saw a small path through the trees perpendicular to the front fence. He turned and trotted down it. His running shoes struck hard packed earth that must have been traveled by many feet over time. He was flanked on either side by dark trees. Every so often, a leaf would detach itself from above and float down to the leaf litter on either side of the path. He’d been running for an hour at this point and didn’t feel tired, just the opposite. He was getting irritated with the musical artist’s incorrect usage of the word “ironic” (no, a black fly in your Chardonnay was  _ not ironic,  _ it was  _ unfortunate _ ) which might have been the reason he was so startled when a man descended from the trees above to land directly in Remy’s path. Remy came to a sudden stop, his momentum sending him forward a few extra paces. 

The man in his path was stout and barrel-chested. He was wearing a red and black flannel shirt over a white tee, jeans, cowboy boots. His hair stood out from his head and face like some kind of wiry mane. His face, while not classically attractive, had an appealing rugged quality, and bright steely eyes with a thousand-yard stare. Charlton Heston’s  _ Will Penny _ -esque. He was crouched somewhat, and appeared ready to spring in Remy’s direction.

“This is private property, bub,” the man growled. Remy didn’t know about the ‘bub’ part, but the man’s pronunciation of certain vowels put his origins somewhere up north, Canada. A Canuck. 

Remy lifted the earphone from his ear and grinned sheepishly at the man. “Sorry,” he said awkwardly in a flat midwestern accent. “I kinda zoned out there for a minute.” With a small wave, he trotted several paces backwards and then turned to jog away. 

“Geez, Logan,” said a girl’s voice. “Way to be neighborly.” Remy hadn’t seen any girl, it seems that she had materialized out of thin air just after he’d turned. Remy didn’t dare look behind him, but continued his jog back to the apartment.

As he opened the door, he pulled off his knit hat, letting his hair fall down around his face to land on his shoulders. Somehow he hadn’t even broken a sweat. Once inside the apartment, he sat himself at the small kitchenette set that afforded two chairs. Remy opened the notebook he’d left there. Under the names Xavier and McCoy, Remy added the name: Logan. Between the Canadian accent and the red-checked shirt, Remy was put in mind of a certain song.

_ I’m a lumberjack, and I’m okay… _

Remy couldn’t begin to speculate what the man’s mutant abilities were. He wrote “grouchy” next to Logan’s name. Below that, he wrote “Ghost Girl.” Mutant power: invisibility, maybe? He stared at his list, nervously tapping his pen against his forehead. His knee jogged up and down. The glowy feeling was gnawing at his insides. Anxiously, he stood, paced through the tiny kitchen, opened the refrigerator door. There was a six-pack of beer in his fridge. He didn’t think alcohol was going to be a good solution to his problem. Closing the door, he turned and rubbed his head vigorously. His hair crackled. Remy went back outside and sat on the landing, his feet on the top step. He lit a cigarette, trying to calm himself. One cigarette turned into two, lighting the second with the butt of the first. He was just starting to feel some measure of composure when he heard a loud crack. The sound triggered a memory, a phantom sensation of pain across his back from right shoulder to left hip. He shot down the staircase, leaping the last few steps. The cracking sound had been the slam of an aluminum screen door, coming from the main house where the old woman lived. It didn’t matter, Remy was off and running across the side yard, the street, into the forest beyond, through the trees. Running from the fear, the pain, the memory, but he couldn’t run from the glowing sensation growing in his core. It was a long time before he could force himself to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch 3  
> I’m a Lumberjack and I'm OK - Monty Python's Flying Circus


	4. Chapter 4

Remy didn’t blow himself up, but it was a very near thing. He’d managed up a hill, clawing his way through dead leaves, to pull himself under a granite outcropping. Falling into the dark, wet place, he struggled to pull the light back into himself. Evening bled into night. He was surrounded by nighttime sounds of chirping bugs, the hoot of an owl. The wind stirred the trees. Eventually, the glow receded. He remained laying on his side in the moss and rotting leaves. He must have slept, but the dawn still seemed a long time coming. When he saw the faintest hint of pearl gray through the criss-crossing branches overhead, he sat up and climbed up the outcropping. He sat at the apex, not more than maybe six or seven feet above the ground below. He pulled up a leg, wrapped his arms around it, and rested his chin on his knee. The other leg dangled over the edge of the rock. There was a soft rustle of sound. A deer appeared in his field of vision. She wandered over to a patch of green blades of some kind of plant. Her ears swiveled, she seemed nervous. Remy thought she must sense he was there, but couldn’t see him. He held himself very still to observe her, his breath soft and slow. Watching her nibble on the leaves, he felt all at once calm. The relief was profound. Eventually, whatever the doe sensed was enough to drive her away at a nervous trot. Her white tail popped up in alarm and she bounded out of sight.

After he’d returned to the apartment to shower, pull various twigs and leaves out of his hair, and change, Remy went back to the library. The reference librarian flagged him down as he passed through the central atrium. 

“Mornin’,” he told her. She was a young woman, maybe thirty, with a round face, wire-rimmed glasses and blond brown hair she kept in a messy bun; she had a pen stuck in it. Her name was Lara. Her tee-shirt under her cardigan read: Stacked Librarian.

“Stanford faxed over the articles you requested,” she said and handed him a thick sheaf of paper. 

Remy looked at the jargon-riddled abstract of the academic journal article. ‘Mutant’ was mentioned multiple times. He glanced up at Lara through his sunglasses, wondering what the woman thought about his topic of research. Her smile was polite and expression neutral. She told him: “Let me know if you need anything else.”

When Remy was confronted by humans either fearful or nervous about encountering a mutant, he liked to disarm them by giving away some part of himself, letting them see that he was, like them, a person. Human. “Sure, thanks. Can I ask you something?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” she folded her hands on her desk.

“Can I buy you a coffee sometime?” 

Lara smiled and glanced away. “Actually...I have a boyfriend.”

“Just my luck,” Remy said, smiling at her. “‘S’true the good ones are taken. Anyway, sorry. You probably get sick of people hitting on you at work.”

“Well,” Lara began. “I mean, it’s  _ fine _ . It’s not like you’re one of those hair-sniffers.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You know, the old ‘ask the librarian to find you a book wa-ay back in the stacks and then sniff her hair’ trick?”

“I am not familiar,” Remy responded. “Does this happen often?”

“Just a few times a month or so.” Her round shoulders bobbed in a shrug as if to say, “what can you do?”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s better than what Curtis has to put up with in the lab.”

“Do I want to know what happens in the lab?”

“It’s basically the new version of a porno theater.”

“In the  _ library? _ ”

Lara made an expression that said: _ I’ve seen everything. _

“I guess that’s my head’s up to wipe down the keyboard before use. Should I ask what happens in the study carrels? Please say ‘studying.’”

“Uhmm…” she hedged. 

“Okay, ignorance is bliss. I’ll be seein’ you later, Lara.”

Remy returned to the computer lab and quiet study. There was a single man sitting in the far back corner of the lab. Remy eyed him with suspicion. When he looked at Curtis and saw his perturbed expression, Remy began to fear his suspicions were correct. “Hey, Curt, don’t look so glum. It's nearly Sunday!”

Curtis had his elbow on the desk, his face propped in his hand. “One more day closer to Monday,” he said with a somewhat maligned tone.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy to watch Baltimore crush the Pats.”

Curtis spluttered. “You know that’s ridiculous, right? The former Cleveland Browns are terrible! Always were, always will be, no matter what city they’re in! It’s going to be a  _ massacre _ . New England is first in the division!”

“I always root for the underdog,” Remy told him. “You want to watch with me? At that pub down the way?”

Curtis’ attitude improved somewhat. “Harry’s? Sure.”

“Good, because I just asked someone out and got turned down flat. You’ll have to pity-date me. Now, I’m going to my carrel to have myself a good cry,” Remy said, and opened the carrel door.

“Just keep it down, this is a library.”

Remy sealed himself into his cubby. He shuffled through the various floor plans for the Xavier School. He’d marked out entrances and egresses on the first floor drawing. His target was Xavier’s office, first floor, frontmost corner on the side of the mansion that faced the street. The office entry was off the main foyer. It was adjacent to the school library and on the main hall that would lead residents to the kitchen. Remy imagined it would be pretty well-traversed thoroughfare. He speculated he might have to gain access via a window, he couldn’t very well walk in through the front door, and the kitchen would be where people typically gathered. Not ideal.

What interested him were the two floorplans of the basement and sub-basement. Why on earth did they need two floors in addition to the upper portion of the school? The plans showed the excavation site, but other than a demarcation for a utility area, elevator shaft, and the structural supports, there were no interior walls outlined on the floor plan. Why would they need so much empty space below ground? What were they storing down there, a jet? The heating and cooling alone must be costing Xavier a mint. Or not, who knew with the uber-wealthy. Likely there was some write-off that made it so he didn’t have to pay one red cent.

Remy needed to know more about the school inhabitants. So far, he only guessed both Xavier and McCoy were present. Logan the Lumberjack and Ghost Girl were two more. Remy turned to Dr. McCoy’s journal article. It seemed to be about classifying mutant abilities into different categories, and discussing various brain-functions and physical implications of each. Remy rested his forehead in his hand while struggling through all the medical mumbo-jumbo and ten-dollar words. After about an hour, he’d made some progress. He rubbed his face and moaned. Okay, what he gathered was that the article was a case study on four different classifications of mutants. While he didn’t name any names, McCoy did offer descriptions of his subjects. The first was psychic/mental ability that included telepaths and telekinetics. Remy wrote down “telepath/telekinetic” in his notebook as it seemed the subject McCoy discussed was both. Remy didn’t like  _ that  _ at all. He never, ever wanted to meet another telekinetic again in his life. The subject was also female, so Remy wrote “Head Witch” in his notes. Then a long-winded discussion of various lobes of the brain which Remy skimmed through but didn’t absorb. 

Next up: energy generation or manipulation. Here McCoy described a man who could generate concussive blasts of energy from his eyes which he created by absorbing ambient energies. Whatever that meant. Then there was a bunch of stuff about a head trauma. Remy wrote: Laser Eyes in his notebook...close enough.

There followed a description of a class of mutants that could control the natural environment. McCoy described a man with the ability to control water and ice. Simple enough: Iceman. There was also a footnote about a woman who could control weather patterns. Remy added: “Weather Witch” though now he wondered if he should be describing all these ladies as being ‘witches.’ But Remy’s own adoptive mother was a witch, and she was a  _ goddamn saint _ .

Last was physical mutation. McCoy’s subject was a man born with wings. Remy paused, looking up from the article to stare into space. Just how many mutants could have the same mutation, he wondered? The idea that there might be a whole choir of mutant angels flitting about didn’t register with him. Remy knew, specifically, of one angel he’d seen in the news. He’d taken an avid interest in the idea that there might be his perfect opposite floating about in the heavens, gifted with beauty and wealth and power and style. Whereas Remy wandered about the New Orleans streets, not the cleanest place ever, wearing cast-offs. And while he admitted to himself he  _ was  _ an Adonis amongst men, wealth was not something he had experience with, living hand to mouth for most of his life. 

Once Remy had asked his father what the recipe for Ends Meat was, because they didn’t ever get to have it so it must be something good. Confused, his father asked him what on earth he was talking about, then concluded Remy meant “Ends Meet” as in: they were barely making ends meet. Meat-Meet; isn’t the English language fun? The diametric opposition between himself and the high-flying angel also included Remy getting called ‘The Devil’ more often than not. 

Remy left his study carrel to find the periodicals section. He picked up  _ The New York Times _ , sat down in the reading room with it. He scanned the paper for the latest mutant news. Here it was: a mention of a team of mutant-hunters calling themselves X-Terminators, of which Angel was a participant.

_ What the flaming hell…? _ Remy wondered with a growing sense of dread. 

The X-Terminators were purportedly human, however, the similarities to their abilities mirrored that of the journal article. Remy scribbled in his notebook. Head Witch became Marvel Girl. Laser Eyes became Cyclops. Iceman...uhm, turned out to actually be  _ ‘Iceman _ .’ How unimaginative. Then there was Angel, and lastly The Beast. Wait...wasn’t this the same Beast from the Defenders...or was it Avengers? Why wasn’t Beast mentioned in the journal article? Maybe because he was the  _ author _ . Next to McCoy, he wrote ‘Beast.’  _ Got you, you bouncing blue bastard,  _ Remy thought. 

Worrisome as this was, knowing that the people in the school might actually be mutant hunting maniacs, the real thing that set Remy off was knowing the operation was entirely bankrolled by Warren Worthington... _ the Third _ . 

_ Thurston Howell, _ Remy’s brain snarked.

_ A millionaaaaire and his wife, A movie star...The Professor and Mary Ann...Here on Gilligan's Isle! _

Shut up, brain! Remy thought angrily. What did Essex say about his thoughts? Random and nonsensical diversions? So, the guy had  _ that  _ right.

That there should be three iterations of the same white spoiled rich boy...really they could have stopped with  _ one _ . And here Mr. Worthington was paying for mutants to be kidnapped off the streets. That wasn’t a typical rich guy’s MO. Usually, they made their money from more money, hoarded it, and then blamed the victims of their greed for causing the problems they themselves created. Apparently W.W. Number Three was taking a more direct approach in finding scapegoats to blame for all of society's ills.  _ What a piece of -- _ . 

_ I believe in rags to riches. Your inheritance won't last. So take your Grey Poupon my friend, and shove it up your ass! Eat the rich!! _

Remy struggled to draw a breath. The banked fire in his gut was going to become an inferno. He replaced the newspaper and with his notebook, returned to his safe haven. He sat in the worn wooden chair and stared at the wall. He’d made a Frankenstein’s monster out of the aerial photographs to cobble together the school and grounds as seen from above. There was something strange about the grounds outside the school. There seemed to be a disturbance in the turf off the east wing of the building. As the photo was rendered in black and white, the discoloration of the grass was readily apparent. Remy thought perhaps it could be the world’s most enormous septic system, except that the coloration extended for miles and off the edge of his collage. 

It’s an underground pipe, he thought. Or...a tunnel? The tunnel pointed in the direction of New York City. Inspired, Remy riffled through his floor plans again. He looked at the basement and sub-basement. Yes, it did seem there was a strange access panel on the east side of the sub-basement. He hadn’t realized what he was looking at until now, because it didn’t make sense to have a door in an exterior wall that would lead presumably to dirt. Now he understood it to lead to a tunnel. And the rest of the empty floor plan? Maybe a hospital for the injured. Maybe a training facility. Maybe...holding cells for captured mutants. Or some kind of...camp. And not the kind with s’mores. 

_ Arbeit macht frei _ ...his stomach filled with dread. 

So what was his mission now? Avoid the school entirely, head for the hills and hope not to blow anyone up? But what if there were mutant prisoners in the sub-basement? Could he help them? Figure out if this Xavier guy was a figurehead or the brains behind this outfit, then turn him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.? Maybe if Uncle Nick weren’t still mad about him stealing that jet... 

Okay, new mission. Figuring out a solution to his Gambit-Go-Boom problem would be secondary to uncovering information about just what was going on in the basement of that building. 

In the big blank space on the floor plan, Remy wrote: Here Be Dragons.

* * *

Next time: Boy Meets Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy’s Random References, A Catalog of Internal Musings  
> Ch 4  
> Thurston Howell - Gilligan's Island   
> Eat The Rich - Aerosmith  
> Arbeit macht frei - Work will set you free, over Auschwitz front gate


	5. Chapter 5

Another cause for alarm was McCoy’s bibliography and reference notes. There were about fifteen pages worth, which was scary enough, but on the final page he spotted an author by the name of Xavier, Brian, followed by Amanada Mueller and Nathan Milbury as co-authors of a study. The study was in reference to a catalog of over one hundred mutants, from approximately 1945 to 1980, called Black Womb (not in the least bit horrifying!). McCoy had based his terminology on the classifications established in that study. It seemed Charles Xavier had lineage in the field of mutant research, beginning with his father, Brian. So in addition to holding them captive, the kidnapped mutants were probably being experimented on. That put him back in mind of Essex. Was Xavier in cahoots with Lurch? He pestered Lara to make another inter-library records request for the Black Womb study, and she was happy enough to comply but again, he’d have to wait. And due to the obscurity of the study, probably a lot longer.

Remy had too much to think about and needed a mental break. Remy went downstairs to where the restrooms were and splashed water on his face. He thought maybe he should get something to eat, but his funds were getting low. He exited the washrooms into the children’s section. He looked at the fish for a bit, feeling that same calm settle over him as when he’d seen the deer that morning. 

The children’s librarian, Linda, was reading to a group of children seated on the colorful area rug. “And that, my friends, is the end of our story! Now! Who would like to help me make our  _ own  _ stone soup? Oh, aren’t you all great helpers! Come on friends, let’s go to the community table! Everyone grab some vegetables.”

Linda stood and wrapped her long shaggy shawl over her shoulders to herd the children in the direction of the community table. For some reason, she had a large blue gray blob of hardened Play-Doh stuck on her headband. She spotted Remy by the fish tank. “Oh, John honey, come over here! I have something for you!”

Smiling, he approached the sweet-natured matron. “What’s that now?” he asked.

“I wanted to thank you for helping me cut out all those vegetables yesterday,” she began and gestured to where the kids were selecting their construction paper vegetables. “I couldn’t have cut them all out myself. Arthritis,” she made a pained sort of face.

“I enjoyed our arts and crafts time,” Remy told her. “Not the glitter so much.”

“So, in thanks, I got you something!” Linda went over to her desk and removed a book from the upper drawer. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he told her, accepting the book she held out to him. 

“It’s only a paperback,” she said apologetically. “But I thought you’d want to read this sooner rather than later, before the second installment comes out!”

Remy saw it was the boy wizard book. The boy on the cover was flying on a broomstick. “Hey, thanks, Lin. But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.” 

“Nooo, no trouble, John honey,” she told him and patted his arm. “You are just a perfect doll! Now, I’m sorry to leave you, but I have to get back to my friends.”

“Thanks, Linda,” Remy murmured as she rejoined her group. 

“Now! My friends, have any of you seen where I might have left my magic stone? I can’t find it  _ anywhere _ !”

The children chorused: “IT’S ON YOUR HEAAAD!” 

Grinning, Remy left behind the cacophony of children’s voices and returned to the upper level. He sat in one of the soft chairs in the reading room to look at his new book: Chapter One, The Boy Who Lived. He found himself completely engrossed for the next few hours. When he finally emerged from Hogwarts several chapters later, he looked up and blinked at his surroundings, which he’d completely forgotten. There was no burning, no sparks in his gut. Just complete calm. He tilted his head back to stretch his neck, resting it on the back cushion, closing his eyes as he did so. 

Something came loose in the back of his mind.  _ A body at rest stays at rest.  _ Remy’s eyes snapped open. Where was that from, in his mind’s great entropic catalog of random facts and fictions?

He climbed from the squashy chair to walk into the reference room. “Got another question,” he began without preamble.

Lara glanced up from the library’s catalog, which unlike the time when Remy was a child, was no longer on index cards in a drawer, but on the computer.

“Sure, John, what completely random question do you have for me today? I love your surprises.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘a body at rest stays at rest’?” 

She seemed to gaze inwardly for a moment, and Remy wondered if she weren’t also checking her internal catalog. “Yes,” she said. “I do think I know it. That would be tenth grade science. I remember, because I got a D in Physics, and that was a trauma I’ve never recovered from.”

“But you can’t have scored so poor, you’re too smart,” Remy told her.

“I’m more into Library Science than Physical Science. Let me look up some books for you,” she plugged away at her catalog and grabbed a scrap paper and pencil. “Here’s the call number for the section you want. You’re looking for the 500s, physics starts around subject 100. I’d offer my help, but I’ve filled my hair-sniffer quota for the week.”

Remy gave her an injured look. “Well, I never! What kind of service is this?”

“Public and tax payer funded,” she replied and returned to her work.

“You are too sharp for me, Lara,” Remy said and wandered back into the nonfiction section. “I'll always carry a torch for you though!” He found the metaphysics books on the lower shelf near the rear of the stacks. He pulled out a ponderous tome that simply read ‘Physics’ on the cover and had a picture of a pair of magnets repelling one another on it. He was thinking his problem wasn’t a mental one, and not a physical one, but maybe a physics one. He discovered where he’d heard the “body at rest” quote. It was Newtonian mechanics, the First Law of Motion. A body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it, and a body in motion at a constant velocity will remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.

“Uggh,” he groaned. “Not helpful, Newton. Stick to makin’ fig cookies _. _ ”

The problem with theories and abstract thoughts was that Remy’s brain failed to comprehend them. To him, seeing was believing, or at least understanding. For example, when someone provided Remy with directions to someplace he’d never been, his brain would immediately wander off only to return singing the Meow Mix jingle, and he would find himself very lost and annoyed. But if he went exploring on his own, he’d be able to figure out where he was going pretty quick. Remy gave up on the Physics book and looked for something a bit more his speed, preferably with pictures. Maybe he should start in the children’s section? Instead, he found a book called _A_ _Brief History of Time_ by Stephen Hawking. It was not a thick book, which was odd considering it explained Everything In The Universe. It was written in a straightforward understandable language by a guy who by Remy’s account was very, very smart. Remy thought that if McCoy could learn a thing or two about writing in plain English, then maybe his articles would actually get read. 

Remy was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle, books scattered all around him, completely taken in by Hawking's description of the shape of the universe. 

“ _ What? _ ” he asked himself aloud, holding onto the top of his head as if to keep his mind from literally being blown. 

A shadow fell over him and he glanced up from his exploration of black holes. He took in the sight of a pair of bright white sneakers, denim clad legs that flared out to curvaceous hips, a wasp-waisted torso and full breasts covered in a tee-shirt featuring Dolly Parton’s face. Moving ever upward, his gaze fell upon toned arms clad in tight cotton sleeves, strong shoulders, a long, elegant neck hidden under a white turtleneck. The face, had it appeared in 5th century Sparta, would have launched a thousand ships. Heart-shaped, full-lipped, with a smattering of pale freckles across her slightly upturned nose, large green eyes half hidden under softly curling chestnut and white hair. 

The cogs and wheels that turned in Remy’s mind came to a jarring halt and a spring made a cartoonishly loud  _ boing _ before the entire mechanism fell to bits. He found his tongue a flat slab, as if someone had cast  _ Petrificus Totalus _ on it. 

The woman looked momentarily surprised to find Remy sprawled in the middle of the aisle. “Oh,” she said and asked, with a little annoyance: “Lost in a good book?”

Remy almost said: “Derrr…” but more embarrassingly announced: “Lost. In. Spaaace!” and showed her the cover of his book that depicted the glowing cosmos. 

_ What the hell is wrong with you?  _ his brain screamed.  _ Save that weird geek shit for  _ after _ she’s agreed to marry you! _

Apparently not scared off by this announcement, the enchanting creature before him shone her beautiful smile upon him. In an attempt to not keep staring dumbfounded at her with his mouth hanging open, he hastily began gathering up his books. “Sorry,” he said, shifting books out of her way. “I’m taking up the whole aisle.”

“No worries,” she told him. “Only Ah think Ah’m in the wrong place.” She glanced down the aisle. “Ah was told there’d be cookbooks down here, but this looks like science.”

“You’re not lost, you’ve been found,” he told her. He gestured to the physics books. “Recipes for the universe,” he reached across to the opposite shelving unit that carried the 600s and selected a recipe book. “Recipes for potluck.” Holding his two books aloft as he shrugged said: “Recipe for disaster,” and indicated himself.

He was rewarded with a small laugh. 

Music began playing in his head:  _ And I'd give up forever to touch you...'Cause I know that you feel me somehow… _

She reached out a glove-encased hand for the recipe book. He relinquished it to her grip. “Thanks, sugah, that’s exactly what Ah was looking for.”

_ You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be...And I don't want to go home right now. _

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He popped to his feet like a marionette tugged on a string by its master. “You could save yourself de trouble of cooking up a pan of mac and cheese, and let me take you out to dinner instead,” he told her.

_ Very smooth! _ his brain cheered.

“Oh, Ah--,” here, the physical embodiment of light and song stammered. “Ah don’t think…”

_ Your game is weak, mon frère! _ his brain booed. 

Remy was not to be deterred. He had a moment where he considered breaking the fourth wall and telling the audience à la Wayne Campbell: She  _ will  _ be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine. 

“It’s only dat I’m here from out of town and it’s so nice t’hear a familiar voice,” he said, slipping back into his familiar accent. He’d been speaking for so long like a news anchor, that returning to his normal speech pattern felt like taking off a pair of ill-fitting shoes to walk barefoot on warm sand. 

Her brows furrowed a bit, as she tried to place where he was from. “Not...Louisiana, are you?” she asked.

“You win!” he said grandly. “One night on de town with yours truly!”

She shook her head in an admonishing way, but her face was alive with merriment. Her eyes sparkled. “Well, you’re pretty cute, Ah’ll give you that.”

Rudolph the reindeer leapt through the air, red nose aglow: _ She thinks I’m cuuuuuute!  _ he cried _.  _

“But Ah’m afraid…” the woman began. 

_ No, don’t let her get away! Do something, fool! _ his brain encouraged.

“Can I at least get your number?” he asked and thrust forward the scrap of paper Lara had written the call number on. “So I can chat you up and we can talk about what all we miss from back home?”

He could tell her resolve was weakening. “Well, all right,” she said in her soft voice and took the scrap of paper from his hand. She placed it on her book and he handed her his pen. She jotted down the number and seemed half reluctant to return him the scrap. 

He looked down at the number. “Do I get a name t’go with this number?” he suggested. 

She looked embarrassed. “Oh, right...Ah. Uhm, people call me Rogue.”

He grinned at her. “But you’re from Mississippi. Are you sure it ain’t ‘Rebel’?”

“You’re quick on your feet, ain’t ya?” she asked playfully. 

“Shall we dance?” he asked and bowed from the waist. 

She wagged a finger at him. “As much as Ah’d like to go a few more rounds with y’all, Ah got to be gettin’ back. Dinner’s at six-thirty.”

“I hope de folks who get to eat whatever you prepare appreciate de effort you go to,” he told her. “Lovingly made by your own two hands.”

“And do  _ you  _ have a name to go with that snappy patter?” she asked.

“Remy,” he said, failing to think.  _ You couyon, you just gave her your for real name! _

Rogue smiled warmly at him. “Nice t’meet you, Remy.”

Hearing his name on her lips was worth the risk.

“Enchanté,” Remy answered. “Be talkin’ to you real soon.”

Rogue gave a little shy wave and started away. Remy stooped to retrieve his physics books, gathered them in his arms and followed after her. He gave her one last smile as she checked out her recipe book at circulation, then turned to the quiet study area. 

Back in the computer lab, he greeted the curt Curtis. “Good evening and salutations,” he told the librarian.

“You’re looking chipper,” Curtis observed.

“I am...effervescent!” he announced. He sang in falsetto, clenching his fist to his heart in a very Prince-like fashion: “ _ Could you be...the most beautiful girl in the world?”  _

“No, no I could not,” Curtis replied dryly.

“I just met a goddess, and she gave me her number,” Remy informed the man.

Curtis’ shoulders fell a bit. “I take this to mean that you’re straight.”

“As an arrow, my friend! But I will still buy you drinks Sunday,” Remy danced his way to the study carrel, in the doorway, he spun and added: “Because  _ I’m  _ a gentleman!” With that he shut the study carrel door.

“You’re dramatic enough. Are you sure you’re not gay?” Curtis complained. 

“Stereotype!” Remy called through the door. 

“ _ I’m _ gay so  _ I _ can say it!”

Remy laughed. He plopped himself into the wooden chair and held the scrap of paper with Rogue’s number on it before him as if appraising a diamond-encrusted necklace. Leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, he accidentally kicked his notebook where it fell open onto the floor. Remy stooped to pick it up. As he looked at the first page of his notes, the bright smile he wore fell off his face to land on the floor with a clatter. Blinking rapidly, he held Rogue’s number up to the number he’d written for the Xavier School.

They were one in the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Girl meets boy.
> 
> Remy’s Random References, A Catalog of Internal Musings  
> Ch 5  
> Sparta - Helen of Troy, the face that launched a thousand ships, the most beautiful woman in the world  
> Petrificus Totalus - Harry Potter  
> Song, Iris, Goo Goo Dolls  
> Wayne Campbell - Wayne’s World  
> She Thinks Im Cute, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, animated cartoon  
> The Most Beautiful Girl In the World - Prince


	6. Chapter 6

Rogue was walking down the forest path leading to the Xavier school from town. She was smiling to herself, taking her time in getting home just to continue to savor the brief encounter with the cute boy from the library. It wasn’t so much his looks that made him cute, but everything he said and did. In fact, when she first saw him sitting sprawled in the aisle, with his scuffed tennis shoes, rumpled light-colored jeans, faded tee-shirt covered over with a lumpy brown coat, she thought he was a vagrant. His hair was a tangle of brown that fell to his shoulders and he was wearing a pair of sunglasses. She thought he might be drunk at first, and when he slowly appraised her body from foot to head, she was about to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, he’d made a goofy television show reference, and then smiled sheepishly as if he was embarrassed by his outburst. 

She saw then that he was surrounded by hard science books. The combination of academic plus his haphazard attire put her into the mindset that she was encountering not a derelict, but an eccentric. When he bounced to his feet as if pulled by an invisible string, she saw that he was tall and narrowly built, but with broad shoulders, shaped not unlike a down-pointing arrow. His features, what she could see of them behind the hair and the sunglasses, were what one of her romance novels might have described as ‘chiseled,’ except when he smiled there was a big dimple in his cheek that made him look boyish. He had a nearly straight nose that might have been broken once, a mouth that curved up at the corners with a full lower lip, a scruff-covered angular jawline that could have been drawn with the precision of a triangle ruler. 

When he asked her to dinner, she heard the sound of a thousand elephants thundering through her mind on why she couldn’t, just couldn’t accept, even though she dearly wanted to. No one had ever asked her out before. No one had ever wanted her phone number. But the elephants trumpeted about “mutant” and “townie” and “your powers” and “the school” and “secrecy” and a host of other conflicts. But she relented, and when presented with her name, he didn’t even blink, just took it at face value. Despite her reservations, she was now taking the time to bask in the sensation that for once, she wasn’t the one pursuing a silly unreciprocated crush. For once, someone wanted to pursue  _ her _ . She did a little twirl in the middle of the path, hugging her recipe book to her chest. She knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, or get too worried about her elephants, he probably wouldn’t call her anyway.

She found she was disappointed when she turned out to be right. Inspired by his suggestion, she’d started making a giant pan of macaroni and cheese. She decided to attempt some kind of healthy option by also providing sauteed green beans and a side salad. People inevitably arrived in the kitchen at the first hint of food preparation. Logan and Kitty set out plates and cutlery in the center of the kitchen table. Sometimes everyone would come at once, but more often than not, Xavier School residents would filter in, eat and chat for awhile, stand at the counter, or just grab a plate of food and retreat. Ororo drifted in, her usual serene expression had been recently transformed into downright glum. She surveilled the prepared food and Rogue assured her there were no meat by-products in any of the dishes. 

She took out a second pan of pasta from the oven when she heard several of the New Mutants coming in from the foyer. They tended to decimate the place, there were never leftovers. Piotr entered from the back door leading to the patio, filling the kitchen with his enormous presence. When Rogue offered him a plate he told her: “I will bring this to Kurt. Will return. Please save me a plate?”

“Will do, sugah,” and placed a large serving on a plate, and covered it with Saran Wrap in case anyone got any ideas about stealing it. 

The younger students arrived en masse to begin their big loud food frenzy. They were followed by Magnus, who when offered a serving, declined. 

“I will be in my office,” he said, and passed through the kitchen with little interaction between himself and the other adults. 

_ Xavier’s office _ , Rogue thought to herself. 

Lastly, Rogue took a plate for herself and sat with Logan and Kitty at the table. She had some of her attention on her food, some on the conversation happening between Logan and Ororo, and all the rest on the cordless phone hung on the kitchen wall. It remained silent. Still thinking of the cute boy,  _ Remy _ , which was about as cute of a name as a boy could have, she smiled to herself. 

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Kitty asked in a sort of wheedling tone.

Rogue shook her head. “Oh, nuthin’. Just, somethin’ funny I saw at the library.”

“What’s that?” Kitty asked.

“A recipe for disaster,” Rogue said idly.

Kitty was interrupted from further interrogations when Piotr reentered. He found his plate and joined the table, sitting himself next to Kitty. Rogue smiled at them both, raised her eyebrows at Kitty, who said nothing but concentrated on eating macaroni as if she’d been practicing her whole life for this very moment. 

With dinner finished, Rogue continued to linger in the kitchen. 

“You did all the cookin, darlin’,” Logan told her. “Let us do the clean up.”

“No, it’s okay. Ah got nothin’ better to do anyhow.”

She stayed in the kitchen post-clean up, idly reading the newspaper at the kitchen counter. Stragglers emerged and were disappointed to find there was no more food, then consulted the pantry for snacks and junk food. By nine-thirty, she gave up. Why was she waiting on some boy anyway, like some nineteen-fifties era teen girl waiting by the phone for Johnny Football to call? Slightly miffed, she huffed out the door to go fly around the lake for a while.

Saturday. No phone call. Sunday, crickets. “Oh, well,” Rogue decided. “You can’t mourn something you never had to begin with.”

Sunday night was the night everyone was expected at the table, provided there were no hordes of aliens or Nimrod sentinels to destroy. It was Logan’s turn to cook, so that meant chili. At least two kinds of chili anyway, since Ororo didn’t eat meat. Afterwards, Rogue hung back in the kitchen, eating a piece of cornbread she’d poured milk onto as a dessert. She had her recipe book propped open and was looking to plan her next dinner. Maybe something Cajun? When she was done, she bussed her empty bowl and spoon and began towards the foyer to go upstairs. She thought about reading her latest romance novel for a while before bed. 

In the foyer, the office door was open. A rectangle of yellow light shown on the polished foyer floor. Rogue suspected Magnus was inside, she could hear the shuffling of paper. Rogue made her way to the staircase when the phone suddenly rang.

Rogue froze with her foot on the first tread. How fast could she make it back to the kitchen, she wondered? Before she could turn she heard a click and the sound of Magnus’ voice. “Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters,” he answered curtly.

“‘Ello, and bonsoir!” announced a voice. Apparently, he was on speaker phone. Rogue’s face began to pinken. “My dear sir, can you please direct my phone call to the roguishly delightful enchantress with de bi-colored locks? The gorgeous girl who has claimed my very heart at the first sight of her emerald eyes?”

“I beg your pardon?” Magnus asked, nonplussed.

“Please don’t tell me I am too late, and my Princess Aurora has pricked her finger and fallen into a deep sleep?”

“There is no one by the name of Aurora here. Do you perhaps mean, Ororo?”

“Nay, for none can compare to the one they call Rogue. She is the fairest one in the land.”

“I am hanging up now.”

“No!” Rogue said suddenly, appearing in the office doorway. More quietly she added: “Ah’ll take it in the kitchen, thanks.”

“Who is this strange person?” Magnus asked her quizzically.

“Oh, a boy Ah met,” she said, turning to leave. “In town.”

She could tell that Magnus had more to say but she was all ready running back to the kitchen. She picked up the receiver and called back into the hall: “Ah got it!”

She held the receiver to her ear, waiting to hear the click that meant Magnus had hung up the phone. She heard him draw a breath, but then the phone went silent. Too silent.

“Uhm, ah...hello?” Rogue asked.

“‘Who is zis strange person?!’” Remy mimicked in a heavily-laden German accent. “I’d like t’know, who was that Wet Blanket?”

Rogue smothered a laugh and a snort, shoulders shaking. When she composed herself she said: “That was the headmaster.” 

“Oh, sorry chère. I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble,” Remy said concilliatorially. “I’m not callin’ too late, am I?”

“No, it’s fine. He just doesn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

“That much was obvious from de first five seconds,” Remy told her. “Are you awful mad at me for not callin’ earlier?”

“No. Ah mean, okay a little.” She perched herself on a barstool near the phone cradle.

“I’m really sorry. Only I had some studying I had to catch up on.”

Rogue recalled the books he’d had spread all over the floor, that she’d seen him last going through to the library’s quiet study area. “You crammin’ for midterms?” she asked.

“Got a big test comin’ up, for sure,” he answered. “What’d you all end up makin’? That night you wouldn’t go out with me?”

Rogue smiled. “Ah realized Ah was hungry for macaroni and cheese,” she said. 

“Liked de baked kind? With all the browned cheese on top?”

“You got it.”

Remy groaned. “I sure do miss home cooking,” he said. “And then pour a bunch of Tabasco on top! C’est magnifique!” 

“That sounds appalling,” Rogue told him.

“You had it?” he challenged.

She had to concede that she had not.

“Don’t knock it til you try it! I don’t know too many foods that aren’t better with Tabasco. Where I come from it’s basically salt and pepper.”

“Where is that then, exactly? In Louisiana.”

“N’Awlins,” he answered. “You been?”

“Couple times,” Rogue said. “When Ah was a kid.”

“Oh yeah, what’d you do when you were there?”

“Some sightseeing,” Rogue answered. “Rode a street car, visited Cafe du Monde. The usual stuff, Ah guess.”

“Ah, chѐre, you gotta get away from de main drag. If it were me, I’d take you out somewhere, my favorite restaurant. You like oysters?”

“Bleagh, no,” Rogue said.

There was a pregnant pause. “I’m afraid our relationship is over,” he said. “I’d say it’s not you, it’s me. But alas, it  _ is  _ you.”

Rogue laughed. “Okay, maybe Ah’ll try  _ one _ !”

“Anyway, can’t keep talkin’ about food, I’ve only got Ramen in de house.”

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

“How about our date?”

Rogue twisted a lock of hair around her gloved finger. “Did Ah agree to go on a date with you?”

“Technicality!” 

“Okay, then sugah, what would you want to do on our hypothetical date, if one should happen?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. As far as I can see, alls there to do here is ride hay wagons and drink cider.”

“There’s a pub in town,” Rogue suggested.

“You mean Harry’s Hideaway. I’m familiar. Only I won’t be going back in there anymore.”

“Why on earth not?” she asked, perplexed. Harry’s was a perfectly cozy pub with good food.

“Let’s just say me and my friend did not get a warm reception at this afternoon’s gametime. Lucky some big fella stepped in and shooed them off. I think he may go to your same school. Russian Goliath, is what I call him.”

“Oh, that’s Piotr,” Rogue said. “He’s no Goliath. He’s a gentle giant.”

“Well, chère, unless Pete wants to stand as bodyguard, I don’t want to go back to Harry’s in a hurry. And frankly, three’s a crowd.”

“Ah guess that means hayrides and cider then,” Rogue smiled.

“How about we just go for a walk?” he asked. “I am a bit cash-strapped at de moment.”

“That sounds just fine t’me,” Rogue said. “Where in town are you?”

“I can come out by you, no problem,” he told her. “Where can we meet up?”

“Do you know where the school is?” she asked, when he made a sound of confirmation she said: “There’s a little path by the side of the main gate. Takes us all around the property. It’s nice.”

“We gone look at some leaves?”

“It’s that time of year,” she informed him. “For leaf peepers.”

Remy began to laugh. “For  _ what _ ?”

“Leaf peepers, people who travel around looking at the foliage, taking photos.”

“That can’t be a thing.”

“It is.”

He laughed some more. Rogue grinned, happy to have made him laugh. 

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he asked her. “For some peepin’?”

“Let me check my schedule,” she said, and flicked through the calendar mounted on the wall near the phone. Of course, there was nothing on it. “Hm...Ah might be able to pencil you in. Say...round four?”

“That sounds real nice, chère,” he said, his voice low. She felt herself blush. “Looking forward to it.”

“Me too, Remy. Ah’ll see you tomorrow. G’night.”

“ _ Bonsoir, petite _ . _ À demain. _ ”

Rogue floated from the kitchen to the foyer. It didn’t bother her in the least to see Magnus standing there, silhouetted in the office doorway as she made her way up the stairs. She had a date, her first ever date. With the cutest boy in the world. With or without the power of flight, nothing could bring her down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: A Queer Librarian, A Cajun Thief, and a Russian Artist walk into a bar.
> 
> Remy’s Random References, A Catalog of Internal Musings  
> Aurora - Disney’s Sleeping Beauty


	7. Chapter 7

“Looks like you beat me here,” Curtis said as he approached the bar. 

Remy swiveled in the wooden stool, his posture languid as he leaned back into the spindled backrest. “Best seats in the house,” he told the librarian and pointed to the television screen poised overhead. Curtis assumed the seat beside Remy. 

“I promised drinks on me,” Remy told him. “What’ll you have?”

“Whatever is on draft,” Curtis told him. “Thanks.” He indicated the pre-game show. “Are you ready for this massacre?”

Remy grinned at him and signaled for the barkeeper to bring two beers. “You seem a lot less surly away from your desk, Curt. Tell me, you like your job?”

Curtis appeared to be taken aback. “Well, yes, I do. I did. I still do. It’s just the new technology brings...stress. But the public needs computers.”

“Yeah, Lara told me what they use them for,” Remy said drolly. The beers arrived and he raised his glass. “I suppose I have to admit, it looks like your team is bound for the playoffs. It’s as inevitable as watching the sun set in de West.”

“I’ll toast to that,” Curtis replied and they tapped their pint glasses together.

“Can you tell me what passes for fun around here?” Remy asked.

“Well, what are you into?”

Remy shrugged. “Why don’t you tell me what you do for fun?”

“Okay, but I think you’ll think I’m quite boring. I like bicycling, riding around on my boat, hiking with my dog.”

“You got a dog? What kind?”

“I don’t know,” Curtis shrugged. “I got him from a shelter. I think he’s part black bear. A black bear that went through a carwash.”

Remy laughed at that. “What’s his name?”

Curtis grimaced a bit, as if he were embarrassed to say. “Marcel.”

“Is that Marcel as in: Marcel DuChamp the artist, or Marcel: the monkey from  _ Friends _ ?”

Now Curtis laughed. “The artist, actually. How did you guess?”

Remy shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t know where I come up with this stuff. I must learn through osmosis.”

“I am not supposed to really be asking this,” Curtis began. “So you can tell me to mind my own business. But can I ask what it is you’re researching?”

Remy studied the man through his sunglasses for a moment, considering how much of the truth he could share. “Researching old homes,” he finally answered. “It’s a pet project of mine. And you thought  _ you  _ were boring.”

“That’s not boring. Have you checked in with Jean in genealogy?” 

“Oh yes, me and her are like this,” Remy said and crossed his fingers. “Jean-ealogist.”

Curtis rolled his eyes. “I think she knew her calling from early on.”

As they spoke, they had their barstools turned slightly to face one another. Remy had the tendency to gesticulate as he spoke, and had left his hand on the back of Curtis’ stool. Remy had never met a person he couldn’t have a conversation with, and had his full attention on the other man as they spoke. But the two men both sensed a presence lingering over their shoulders. As one, they turned to look. There were two other men, locals by Remy’s estimation, standing uncomfortably close to them.

“I don’t think this is  _ your  _ kind of bar,” one of the men said to Remy.

Remy had no idea what the man meant by that, but Curtis seemed to. “I think that’s our cue to leave,” he said, moving to collect his coat.

Remy put a hand on his friend’s arm to keep him in his seat. “It’s still the first quarter,” he said. “We’re not going to leave, are we? I know it’s very apparent Baltimore--.”

“Hey, why don’t you listen to your little boyfriend here, and get out?” interrupted the second man. 

“No,” Remy said simply and glared at the man through the lenses of his sunglasses. He turned away from them to stare resolutely at the television screen. One of the men pushed his shoulder and Remy’s beer spilled.

“This is a family establishment,” continued the man. “We don’t need to see you people in here.”

_ ‘You people _ ,’ Remy thought.  _ Where’s my stick? I got some bears to poke at. _

“And what kind of people do you suppose we are?” Remy asked in a mock polite voice.

“John…” Curtis warned.

“No, Curt, let ‘em speak. I want to hear what they have to say.”

The man gestured at Remy, his hair, and the bright fleur-de-lys shirt he wore that came from a jumble bin and may or may not have been meant for a woman. “Perverts. You, some kind of half-man half-woman. And him,” he gestured to Curtis. “He just has that kind of look.”

Remy’s smile was thin. “You’re making me quite angry,” he said in a soft voice.

“Like I give a shit. Get lost, fa--.”

“Excuse me,” said an enormous voice. Remy glanced to the end of the bar where a man who appeared to have been constructed from concrete stood at least seven feet tall. Though the man was gigantic in proportions, his face was quite young, maybe even Remy’s age. When he spoke, it was with a thick Russian accent: “I think the two of you gentlemen should be taking your leave.”

Remy sighed and looked at Curt. “Looks like this was a bust,” he told the librarian. He moved to rise and collect his jacket, toss a few bills onto the bartop. There was no way he was going to get involved in a brawl with that giant. 

“No,” the large man said, and held out his hand as he approached Remy and Curtis. “I do not mean you. I am meaning these two others who are bothering you.”

“You can stay out of this,” one of the men hesitantly offered. He pointed at Remy. “We don’t need to look at  _ this _ .” 

The Russian glowered at the two locals: “I am seeing two men at a bar watching sports. And what is the difference between what they are doing and what you are doing? Other than you are both being...jerkheads.”

Remy laughed at this. The two men looked incensed. But now the Russian was standing between Remy and Curtis at the bar and the two bigots. “I suggest you take your seats and concentrate on the game. And to not be bothering anyone.”

The two men retreated to their table, took their coats and departed. 

“Well that was a whole new experience,” Curtis observed wryly.

The Russian turned to look at them. “I apologize if you were made to feel uncomfortable here. You are obviously welcome.”

“Hey, oгромное спасибо,” Remy told him. 

“You are welcome, friend. You speak Russian?” the man looked surprised.

“Poorly.”

The Russian appeared to consider Remy’s pronunciation. “This is true. I hope you will stay. My friend and I would like to buy your meals. It is...on us.” The man nodded to a corner booth where a young girl with curly brown hair was seated. She waved at them. 

“That’s really not necessary,” Curtis said with a smile. Remy hoped he’d reconsider. He had very little in the way of cash left, and he wasn’t about to pick the pockets of the locals. They were not his typical mark, he preferred to choose victims a lot more deserving of his attention. Remy knew his father had an open bank account for him in case of emergencies, but Remy didn’t want his family to know where he was, and couldn’t risk a withdrawal and be found out.

“I insist,” said the Russian, and he dropped a heavy mitt on each of their shoulders. “Enjoy the game. I hear these Ravens are going to be...”

“Crushed? Destroyed?” Curtis suggested happily. 

“Eaten alive?” Remy offered. “Made a league laughingstock?”

“Losing quite badly,” the Russian finally said. 

The man nodded and left for his booth. Remy and Curtis looked at one another, then turned to their beers in bemused silence.

“Well, that ended a lot better than I thought it would,” Remy said.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Curtis said. He added: “I really hate that you’re not queer. You’re really very good looking.”

“Hey, don’t think I don’t know that!” Remy gave a self-deprecating grin. “This area doesn’t really seem to have much to offer the gay community.”

Curtis half-shrugged. “No, but the city is only forty minutes away. If I’m in the mood for the scene, I head out. But I like it out here. I can have my dog and bicycle and not have to worry about being hit by a taxi.”

“That is nice. You can have one foot in, one foot out. The best of both worlds.”

“I think so. There’s more stability that way.”

Remy nodded at him. “You’re a smart man, Curt. I think I will take your experience to heart.” He nodded over at the table where the Russian sat with the much smaller girl. “Look at those two. The perfect example of opposites attract. He’s got to be seven feet and she could fit in his pocket.”

Curtis nodded. “They’re an odd couple,” he said. “But all of the kids at the school are. Odd. Not that I’m not odd myself.”

Remy tried not to let himself react to that statement. “Those kids are from the school? Odd...odd in what way?” he asked. 

Curtis turned to him and spoke in a much lower voice. “There’s always something going on at the school. Explosions, strange lights. It’s driving down property values, I think. And all the kids there are rumored to be...mutants.”

“Oh?” Remy said lightly. 

Curtis shrugged. “That’s the rumor. But the big guy, he seems pretty nice. He didn’t have to come over here and stick up for us.”

“Yes, that was nice,” Remy said, in a contemplative voice. Maybe he was wrong about what was going on at the school, he thought. He turned in his barstool to face Curtis directly. He put his fingers behind the stems of his shades and pressed them downwards, so his glasses rose to perch on his forehead. “Do I seem pretty nice?” he asked, looking directly into Curtis’ gray-green eyes.

Curtis looked surprised for a moment, then looked away as Remy lowered his sunglasses. He smiled at his beer. “Linda was right.”

“Come again?” Remy asked.

“Linda guessed why you always had shades on in the library,” Curtis told him. 

“You all been gossiping about me?”

“You’ve made the place a bit more interesting lately,” Curtis said. “And not the kind of interesting where I’m having to hose out the study carrels.”

“And why did  _ you _ think I have to wear my specs?”

“I thought you had some horrible disfigurement.”

Remy gestured to his face. “So this isn’t a disfigurement?”

Curtis shook his head. “No, unfortunately for me, it only makes you more good looking.”

“And what does Lara think?”

“That you’re a big pothead.”

Remy laughed. “She thinks I’m on drugs?” he exclaimed. 

“No, she thinks you like to pass the Kutchie,” he mimed smoking a joint. “But if you’re out, I’m sure she could hook you up.”

“ _ Lara _ ?”

“You’re surprised? Don’t tell anyone, because obviously she’d be fired. She firmly believes someday it will be legalized.”

Remy considered this. “I certainly don’t partake, not of that particular kind of cigarette anyway. Like I need another reason to be paranoid. And there’s plenty of things that should be made legal, like who all you get to marry and live your life with. And plenty of people who get away with doing a lot worse than smoking a joint.”

They watched the game, which turned out to be more exciting than one would have expected. “I have never seen scoring like this,” Remy said. “Defense is asleep at the wheel.”

“Both sides, it’s a poor showing,” Curtis agreed. 

After the game, and enjoying their free meals, they stepped back outside into the mid-afternoon light. “Thanks, John,” Curtis told him. “That was fun.”

“Hey, yeah,” Remy said. “Maybe we just watch somewhere else next Sunday?”

“Sure, come over to mine. You can play with Marcel. But what about that girl, the one you were so happy to get her number?”

“I gotta call her still,” Remy said. 

“Really?” Curtis said in a flat tone. “You’re not playing that ‘I’ll keep you waiting’ game are you? I really hate that.”

Remy grimaced. “I know. I’ll apologize profusely. Grovel, plead, cry if I have to.”

“You’d better hope she forgives you. But if it falls through, you still haven’t asked Linda out yet.”

“Hey, that’s true,” Remy said considering. “But she’s too good to be a fallback option.”

“I got to get back to let Marcel out,” Curtis said and extended his hand. Remy took it, and pulled the other man into a single armed hug. 

“Next Sunday, yeah?”

They waved and departed in opposite directions. Remy sat on his bike and started the engine. He thought hard about calling the girl, Rogue. He could let her go, forget this whole escapade. Or, he could call her and ask if she could introduce him to the headmaster, Xavier. Though, from what Remy knew from Xavier’s biography, he was an American, not a German. At most, Xavier might have an Oxford-bred accent. Maybe sound a bit like Sir Patrick Stewart, who was Remy’s man-crush. Though he’d told Curtis he was straight, if Sir Stewart showed up at his door with a bottle of wine, Remy wouldn’t say ‘no.’ He might not even need the wine. So then, who was the Wet Blanket who answered the phone?

Remy had another option. Call Rogue and ask her out. Use her to find out what was going on at the school. It didn’t sit well with him, to get intel from the young woman and then break into her house with the information. Everyday was becoming more of a struggle to keep it in, his gut felt like Chernobyl. Even with his new mantra:  _ a body at rest, stays at rest _ , his books, his seat at the library, the fishtank, he was getting more  _ frenetic  _ every day. He would call Rogue and try to learn something new. He didn’t see what other choice he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Save politics for the second date, Rogue.
> 
> I would like to get Chapter 8 up in the middle of the week. Chapters 9-10 up by next weekend, for reasons that will become clear during the upcoming holiday. You’ll want to read on All Hallows Eve...mwahahah.


	8. Chapter 8

Rogue wondered if she wasn’t appearing perhaps too eager to meet her date at the end of the front wall near the forest path. One annoying voice in her head suggested she was  _ desperate-looking.  _ But then Rogue decided, she  _ was  _ eager, so what did it matter if she was being honest with herself and Remy? She was a few minutes early, her bottom resting on the red brick wall that supported the black metal fence. Fortunately, the day was bright and not too cold. She’d put on her best jeans, some hiking boots, a cream colored crew neck sweater with a collared blue denim shirt underneath. She had her brown bomber jacket and a light orange scarf. Brown gloves matched her jacket. Thank goodness it was fall and her gloves didn’t look so out of place as they did in the dead of summer. She had smoothed her hair somewhat and put on the smallest amount of makeup.  _ aren’t you fancy _ , the voice in her head snarked.

_ Shut up, _ she informed the voice. 

_ i’ll enjoy watching you blunder through this,  _ the voice said, meanly.

Logan had looked at her with eyebrows raised as she trotted down the staircase and across the foyer. “Lookin’ nice, darlin’,” he told her. 

“Thanks, Lo,” she said with a secret smile and stepped through the front door. He smiled at her and shook his head, not pressing further.

She was looking up the drive for Remy. She saw his lanky figure from a distance. He saw her too, and waved, though he didn’t seem to hurry any faster. Just kept moseying along like he didn’t have someplace to be. She studied him as he walked towards her. He still had on sunglasses, but his hair had been pulled back from his face. Several stray strands escaped from his ponytail and fell over his brow. He wore a long brown coat that looked fairly worn. His hands were shoved in the pockets. Jeans with holes in the knees, shabby concert tee-shirt, oversized flannel button down in pink and blue, worn unbuttoned. Running shoes on his feet. 

“Am I late?” he asked her when he finally got close enough to speak. “Only that I have been trying to prettify myself this last hour, and have produced mixed results.” He held out his arms in a helpless gesture.

“You look good for a hike, sugah. Maybe not the Ritz though,” Rogue smiled at him. “And you’re not late, Ah’m early.”

“It’s nice to know you’re here lookin’ out for me,” he told her.

She wished she wouldn’t blush within five minutes of him talking to her.  _ he’s playing you like a fiddle. _ “Path’s this way,” she said and pointed. 

“Lead the way, and I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“You really can spin a line, sugah,” she joined his side and they started down the path. 

“Have I reeled you in?” 

“Maybe a nibble,” she said, “but not hooked yet.”

He laughed. He had his head turned to look down at her as they walked. He gave her a smile, then looked up at the path ahead. Gold leaves had fallen from trees to cover the trail.

“Look here, Dorothy Gale, it’s de yellow brick road,” he extended his elbow for her to take his arm. “Will you show this fool scarecrow the way to Oz’s Wizard?”

_ what a dork,  _ the voice said _. _ After a moment of hesitation, she linked her arm in his. “We’re not about to skip, are we?”

“I’m more of an ambler,” he told her.

“Scarecrow, is it? Certainly not cowardly, coming out with the lines you do. And it seems to me you have a big heart. So no tin man either.”

“Girl, you are charming de pants offa me.”

She ducked her head and laughed softly, blushing again.  _ Stop it, face!  _ she told herself.  _ like you’ll ever get into  _ his  _ pants,  _ said the voice _.  _ Rogue smothered her.

“You don’t got any homework to do, do you? With it being a school night?” he asked.

She shook her head, distracted a bit by the battle of wills going on in her head. “Ah’m not really a student,” she told him, kicking the leaves in the path as she walked. 

“I was going to say, ‘gifted’ you are, but ‘youngster’ you are not.”

“I might’ve been held back,” she said, glancing up at him. 

“How old are you anyhow?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” she replied.

He clapped his hand to his forehead. “Robbin’ de cradle, me! I didn’t realize you was jailbait!”

Rogue opened her mouth and made a shocked sound, aghast. “Do  _ not  _ say that!” She pulled him to a halt.  _ prude. _

“All right, I’ll save my off color humor for when you’re older,” he said. “Keep it PG-13 for now.”

“Ah’m not some little kid!” she said, pulling him along again. She considered treading on his foot as they walked to trip him, but felt that would not be very adult behavior. She challenged him: “How old are  _ you _ , then?”

“Twenty-one,” he said. “So I can buy you beer.”

She shook her head, somewhat exasperated. “Incorrigible.”

“So, not a student. You’re a teacher?””

“Ah’m just here...t’help out.”

“How long you been here?” he asked, looking through the trees as if he could see the mansion through the forest.

“Oh, year and a half now,” she said. “Off and on.”

“You go back home on occasion?” he asked. 

“No...Ah. Well, Ah’ve traveled a bit.”  _ san francisco, perhaps? _

“Did you now?” he asked, surprised. “So in addition to being gifted, and gorgeous, you’re also a citizen of de world.”

She grinned. “You can stop with the compliments.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? I’ll stop.”

Rogue shrugged a bit. “Ah’m just sayin’ you don’t have to try so hard.”

“Am I dat obvious?”

“How about we have a real conversation, instead of you comin’ up with cute things to say? Did you finish your study session?” she asked.

“It finished me,” Remy told her. A pair of squirrels ran across their path, having an argument.

“It looked like some hard work,” Rogue told him. “Ah didn’t have a head for math and science mahself.”

“Same boat,” he told her. “What  _ do  _ you have a head for?”

“Ah like reading, and writing.”

“Same. What are you readin’ now?”

“Oh,” Rogue rolled her eyes at herself. “Just some dumb romance book. Ah like to shut mah mind off every once in a while.”  _ ha ha, i see what you did there. _

“I know just how you feel. So. Is it dirty, your book?” he asked her.

She laughed. “No, it’s  _ romantic _ .”

“Maybe you can read me a few of those romance passages over de phone tonight.”

“Remy!” she tugged his arm. “Stop!”

“Ah, I’m just teasin’. You should see the book I’m reading now. At least you’re reading books at the appropriate age level.”

“So what is it?”

“ _ Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone _ ,” he told her, smiling to himself. 

_ dork. _ “Ah think Ah’ve heard of that,” she said. “Haven’t read it though, Ah don’t really read a lot of fantasy.”

“And romance isn’t fantasy? What with the heaving bosoms and throbbing manhoods and all?”

“So you’ve read a romance book?” she asked disbelievingly. 

“I have an open mind. Plus I’m a big sap. Readin’ about Harry looking into a magic mirror that shows you your true heart's desire...and seeing his family’s faces. It about done me in.”

“You homesick? Miss your family?” she asked.

“Weh. Like a phantom limb,” he answered.

“It won’t be too much longer ‘til the semester’s over, until winter break,” she said, and offered him a tiny hug on his arm. “Be seeing them at Christmastime.”

His smile was wistful. “Sounds like a dream come true. How about you? You longing for home?”

“Mississippi? No,” Rogue said. “Do Ah miss the weather, the river, the food? Yes. But this is mah home. This is where Ah belong.”  _ is it, really?  _ She gestured expansively towards where the mansion lay behind them.

“Pretty nice here then?”

Rogue nodded. She steered him down a turning in the path that took them closer to the lake. 

“Why don’t you tell me about it then, your home?”

“What do you want to know?” Rogue asked, feeling a little nervous, wondering how much she could say without revealing anything, while still being honest. 

“Who’s your friends? Tell me about them.”

“Well...Ah guess my closest friend is Logan.”

“Do I got cause to be jealous?” Remy asked.

Rogue smiled to herself. She had kissed Logan once to absorb his healing factor. But Remy didn’t need to know that. “No, we’re just good friends. Trust each other.” 

“You mentioned a Peter on de phone.”

“Yup, he’s a good friend, too. Like Ah said, gentle for how big he is. He’s an artist, a painter. He did me a drawing, which Ah have in mah drawer. I love it, but it’s weird to have a drawing of yourself on the wall.”

“You could give it to me,” Remy suggested. “If it’s of you, it’s no doubt a work of fine art.”

“You said you’d quit!” She shook her head. “And no, never parting with it.”

“You said it, incorrigible, right? Seems like you’ve got a lot of friends.”

She nodded.  _ they were  _ my  _ friends first. _ “Ah can’t forget Kurt. You’ll never meet a more selfless person. But he’s also kinda like an annoying kid brother,” Rogue frowned a little, thinking of how Kurt had been so seriously injured recently, when he was depowered and attacked by an angry mob. She shook free of her worry. “And Kitty. She’s the youngest of our little group. Ororo, she’s our ringleader. A goddess amongst us.” 

They’d reached the lake by now, and a chilly wind blew off the water. The late day sun was shining bright off the lake’s surface, the colorful trees and blue sky were mirrored in the water. They stood for a moment, staring out at the lake.

“What about your...headmaster?” Remy asked. “Xavier?”

“Oh,” Rogue breathed out and her breath made a little plume in the air. “He’s takin’ a...sabbatical.” _ in space, where he can stay, for all i care. _

“Oh,” Remy said. “But then, the Wet Blanket?”

Rogue did not think it wise to discuss Magnus. That was a non-starter. “He teaches the younger students,” she said. “He’s not really part of our...group.” 

“Dieu,” he said absently. “Younger students? Just how many of you are there?”

“Maybe like a dozen or so more residents,” she told him.

“And you all…you’re free to do as you please?”

She was slightly confused by his question.  _ not all of us. _ “For sure we’re less...structured than other schools. Not like a complete free-for-all, there’s  _ some  _ learning going on, Ah’m sure,” she joked. 

She could almost see his eyes from this angle, as she looked up at him and he looked out at the lake. It seemed his eyes were very dark. She wished he would take off his glasses, so she could see his whole face, his brows, the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones. She thought she probably shouldn’t be asking anyone to take anything off, when she couldn’t even take off her gloves. Maybe, like her, he had his reasons for wearing them.

“Since Ah’m answerin’ all your questions, maybe you could answer one of mine?” she asked.

“Okay, shoot,” he said.

“It’s kind of a sensitive issue. Ah guess you’d say “hot button” even.”

“So, like politics, or religion?” 

She nodded. “Kind of political, Ah guess. Social issue.”

He watched her expectantly. 

“What are your thoughts about mutant rights?” she asked in a rush.

She searched his face for a reaction, but saw none. “I guess I haven’t thought much about it,” he told her finally. 

“Do you think all people should have equal rights and standing in the eyes of the law, in society?” she asked. 

He nodded. “I do. But some people aren’t made equal. They get special treatment, don’t they? Because they’re better’n us. Or they think they are.”

Rogue felt a chill go through her. She pressed her lips together, feeling a tinge of anger. “Ah don’t think anyone thinks they're better’n anyone else,” she said, a little forcefully.  _ magnus, _ her traitorous mind suggested.

“Do you think so?” he asked her in a lightly bemused tone, and his face was just as serious as hers. Rogue thought she should just walk away now, but she was going to stand and fight. Give him something to think about anyway, even if she couldn’t change his mind. “I know plenty of people who think they’re better’n me.”

“Ah’m not talking on a personal level, Ah’m talking on a societal level.”

“I got no use for society. Some people get the luxury to do whatever it is they want, while the rest of us get ground under their heels as they run roughshod over us. They have it all, all the power. And we’re  _ powerless _ .” 

_ hm, starting to come around to this guy. _ “Luxury? Is that what you think it is? To be a mutant? Like it’s so easy? Mutants somehow  _ chose  _ to be the way they are?”

His mouth opened, and he seemed taken aback. “ _ Chѐre _ , I don’t think you and I are talkin’ about the same thing.”

“Ah asked you about mutant rights, didn’t Ah?”

“You asked me what I thought about equal rights.”

“It’s the same,” Rogue answered. “Humans, mutants. Black, white, gay, straight, what have you. And we all should get a fair shake.”

“No,” he seemed to be exasperated now. “I’m not talkin’ about that. I’m talkin--.”

“What do you know about it, you bein’ a straight white male? What do you got to worry about equality? Ah guess you don’t really, and that’s why you  _ haven’t really thought about it _ .”

Now he was angry, but then so was she. He shook his head and made a dismissive sound, turning away from her. She wasn’t going to win any arguments with anger though, or with belittling him.    
  


“Ah’m sorry Ah said that,” she said, more softly but not with less conviction. “It came out wrong is all. Ah got mad. I was just thinkin’....If you believed in equality. Maybe think about how some people just need a little extra help, to even the playing field, and make it fair. So everyone gets the same chance.”

He had turned away from her, but now he turned his head. “Yes, that’s what I think exactly. Exactly that. Some want to play on the field, but can’t even get to d’ballpark.”

“Do you feel like you’re shut out...of the park?” she asked, trying to understand where he was coming from.

He shrugged. “Maybe not me personally. I can always figure out a way to get myself in the door, so to speak. This is my thinking about equality...We came up pretty poor. Like, I’m going to go to bed early, just so I can sleep and not feel so hungry for a bit. That kind of poor.”

“Oh,” she said quietly.  _ aw. _

“And it didn’t seem to matter how hard my poppa or brother and his wife---worked---it was always that the money was gone before it even came in de door. Meanwhile, there’s no upper limit to what those with power and those with money think they deserve. Happy to take away what little we had. More is never enough for the likes of them.”

Realization slowly crept up on her. “So when you were talkin’ earlier, about people who think they’re better, you were talkin’ about the rich and powerful...not mutants. Power as in monetary power, not as in mutant ability,” she said slowly. 

By way of answer he quoted: “‘ _ Careless people. They smash up things... then retreat back into their money. Let other people clean up the mess they had made _ .’”

_ gatsby _ . Rogue felt all her earlier anger melt away. “Ah’m glad we’re on the same page. Ah guess Ah jumped to the wrong conclusion. Thanks for arguing with me.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “We must have just been seeing through our own personal lens.”  _ like i have a choice. _

Remy’s expression softened. His dimple reappeared. “You’re a feisty one. I’ll know what I’m in for the next time we tussle.”

“Well, Ah hope it doesn’t come to that,” she told him.

“People can disagree and fight and still be friends,” he said. “And as for racial equality, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“You got to at least try, t’stand up for something, sugah.”

He drew a breath to respond, then seemed to think better of it. Once again he turned to look at the lake and not at her. 

“What is it?” she pressed.

“I need to plot out my argument before I take you on again,” he said. “I’m huddling up my defense.” 

“Okay, Ah’ll wait. Why don’t we walk some more? Ah’m getting cold standing here.”

“You seemed pretty het up a second ago,” he told her. Once again he offered his arm.

“Ah get that way when it’s somethin’ Ah care about.” She linked her arm in his.

“Awright, here goes,” Remy began as they walked. “So...no matter how hard me and my family had it, the woman who cared for me growin’ up, was a mother t’me. None of us had it as bad as her. B’cause she’s a Black woman.”

He seemed to appraise her carefully for her reaction then. Maybe he wondered if she had her own racial biases. “Tell me about her,” she said.

“Well, so if we were out together, people assumed she was my nanny or housekeeper, not her own kid. Talked down t’her or talked to me like I was de one in charge, me bein’ ten, eleven, twelve... When we went to de market, people would stiff her, just out of meanness. And knowing there wasn't much she could do about it. That’s just a tiny bit of it, there’s a million ways they made her feel less than. And she’s...been around a long time, and has seen it all. And maybe it’s changed, but not in ways to make her life fair. Just enough to make it bearable. And when I thought I’d stand up for her, get mad and fight back, she said it wasn’t worth it for me to go t’jail or get hurt on account of her.”

Rogue felt angry again, at the unfairness, not at Remy. “Ah’d have stood up for her,” she said. “Whether she said boo or not.”

Remy smiled and shook his head. “You don’t know her. She can put the fear of God in you. I could beat a hundred bigots, but I wither under the force of her glare.”

“Another example of someone who needs extra help, to get them where they should be. That’s why we got to fight for your momma. That’s what Ah think for mutants too. Some of us just need extra help, not just granting us the same freedoms as others, but extra care with the powers we’ve been given. We need  _ more _ , not less. Not punishment, not be controlled, not blamed. We need help. If there was something out there, support, then there’d be no mutant menace. There’d be no need for Mutant Control Acts. X-Terminators.”

He had stopped in the path to look at her. Because he still held her arm in his, she stopped as well. She had been watching where she put her feet while she talked, but now she felt the weight of his gaze on her face. She slowly turned to him.

“‘We,’” he repeated. “‘Us.’”

She nodded. “Ah’m a mutant.”

Her heart was racing. She felt like she was veering in one direction one minute, then being taken by surprise at a sudden turn. How did this conversation go from flirtatious to serious, then maddening to empowering? How did she open up her most fervent beliefs to someone she’d just met? How was he not running for the hills? Was she articulate? _you_ _sound a naive child_. She prayed he at least felt the conviction of her words, even if it came out all wrong. She felt his pain, understood now why he had been so adamant in his anger, his feelings of powerlessness. Now she felt excitement, maybe fear...no, trepidation. She also felt hopeful that he might like what she had to say. That he might like _her_. 

By now the sun had started to lower itself behind the trees. His face was lit up orange and red, the light reflecting off the lenses of his sunglasses. His expression was not easily readable. “Y’are?” he finally said. “What’s your powers then? Can you show me?”

She nodded. “Well, maybe not a demo. But. Ah’m super strong.” She flexed a bicep and struck a pose.  _ oh, so you mean  _ my  _ powers? _

“How strong? Can you deadlift me?”

She grinned. “Little ole you? That and then some. Like bench press a tank.”

He laughed at that. “I can’t picture it.”

“Ah’m near invincible,” she added. “Like bullets bouncing off me invulnerable.”

“You haven’t been shot at, surely?”

“Ah mean, Ah could drown. Be poisoned,” she said, choosing not to answer his question. “Ah suppose if the Hulk sucker punched me...Thor’s hammer could throw me for a loop.”

His smile was bright in the darkness. “Is there nothing you can’t do?”

“Ah can fly,” she said, and lifted herself off the ground a foot or two. He reached out and grasped her forearms as if she would float away like a wayward balloon. She let him guide her back to earth. She was standing very close to him now, face to face. Or chest to face, as she had to look up at him. He could lean down and kiss me now, she thought, which made her somewhat nervous. She stepped a pace away, putting distance between them. But of course he couldn’t kiss her, and she wouldn’t let him. Not without her absorbing his strength, his thoughts and memories. She didn’t tell him that part though.  _ yes, do omit that vital piece of information, why don’t you? _ She didn’t want to think about never being able to press her own lips to the softness of his lower lip, feel the scratch of his stubble against her mouth. 

“Y’aint afraid of me, are you?” she asked him.

“If you can throw down with de Hulk, I’d be pretty dumb to not fear you a bit, chѐre….I like that you care so much, that you want to fight for what’s right. I’m glad you’re takin’ what you’ve been given to make things better.”

_ ‘given,’ right _ ...

“You could do the same, Remy,” she said.

He shook his head a little. “I am just fightin’ to survive.” 

She wondered what it was he was trying to survive. Poverty? A hard enough problem, but it seemed like he had something he was withholding. Once again, she wished she could see his eyes to gauge his expression. The sun disappeared behind the trees and they were surrounded with blue-green shadows. The waves lapped at the lake edge. A bird called in the forest. “It’s gettin’ pretty dark,” she said. “Can you see okay, in your shades?”

“I see fine, chère, don’t worry about me,” he said quietly. She felt warm now, standing next to him. His body radiated heat like a furnace. 

“Do you want to come up to the house?” She asked, hooking her thumb over her shoulder. Now that she knew where he stood, she felt comfortable bringing him back to the school. She doubted Magnus would, and she’d have to steer Remy clear of him. She thought she could offer him something to eat, but worried he might think she pitied him.

“Maybe some other time, chère,” he said. “I should go back, lest I get et by a loupgarou out here in de forest.” 

“Ah guess Ah shouldn’t make you walk home in the dark. Ah could fly you,” she offered.

He grinned at her. “I don’t think my heart can take it,” he said. “I can find my way back, no problem. I could walk with you a ways back towards de house.”

She agreed and they started back the way they came in companionable silence. The mansion’s lights were on, shining down into the patio, the winterized pool, and yard. They stopped just short of where the lights painted the grass in bright yellow rectangles. 

“The path’s just that way,” she said and pointed. It was a clear path to the front gate and Graymalkin beyond. “Ah’ll keep a lookout for the loupgarou.” She thought then of Logan out prowling and wondered if Remy didn’t have a right to be leery of the dark woods.

She thought he might try to kiss her then, a thought that both frightened her and nearly enticed her. She half hoped he would try, so she could tell him she didn’t kiss on the first date. Just so she could know that he felt the same way she felt about him. Instead he nodded. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me,” he said. “I’d love to see you again.”

“Me too,” she said. 

He had released her arm and was now holding her hand. He bowed slightly and kissed the back of her fingers.

“ _ Adieu... adieu... _ ,” he said. 

_ ugh, you’re not going to fall for this, are you? _ “Good night,” she told him. “Be safe.” She watched him slowly amble off towards the path, the fence. When he’d reached Graymalkin Lane and disappeared from sight, she lifted herself from the ground, spread her arms and twirled about the yard like a top, her hair flying out from her head. Now her outsides matched her insides, wild, whirling, waiting for the next sharp drop, high hill, or loop-de-loop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Remy’s impressions of how the date went.
> 
> Remy's Random References  
> Ch 8  
> Adieu adieu - Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet, a farewell meaning "to god, to god" rather than a "goodbye" or "see you later."


	9. Chapter 9

The last thing he needed, the very last thing, was to have involved himself in a discussion about equality, race and class. The very things that set him off into wild rages with explosive results. The things that reminded him of the very real class warfare waged against his family for generations. The kind of warfare that involved  _ actual  _ weapons employed against him and his family members, whatever was readily available, and wielded with a strong arm and iron fist. And when her arm got tired, she could always send in a few assassins to finish the job. When Remy was banished from the Thieves' Guild for what he did, he at least could claim to no longer serve her, Candra. But when she demanded recompense for the assassin she’d lost to Remy’s poor swordsmanship, and all the clans combined could not afford to pay, he had little choice but to find himself trapped under her heel once more. For three unbearably long years. 

Spending his nights with the outrageously powerful: Externals, Hellfire Club, oligarchs, CEOs of multinational business conglomerates, Washington politicians, Saudi princes, Hollywood weirdos. All of them soulless sharks circling one another sniffing for blood. Candra loved to dress Remy up and position him in front of some vapid, moronic, moneyed blowhard, who talked and talked and talked about himself. And had nothing at all to say. With a bloated face and bloated ego, heard only himself speak, saw only the little line that indicated his net worth. All of it filling Remy with a blind impotent rage, only to have Candra release him into the world to see what he’d do with his hatred.

You know, for fun.

Once at a dinner party, guests were lauding a former president with glory. Remy had exploded, informing the table that their god was a warmongering phony cowboy riding in on a Trojan Horse called Racism and he and his wife and their war on drugs could just go get fucked. There was absolute silence for one perfect moment. He was promptly escorted from the room, but not before hearing a wine glass shatter on the floor, followed by the echoes of Candra’s laughter. 

“Oh, you dear sweet heart,” Candra told him later, in a motherly voice as directed to a very small child. “Don’t you know how silly it is..to get mad at  _ this  _ president -- or  _ that  _ president? Their terms are just so short! And you know why that is, dear one? It’s bureaucracy instilled in a system to attempt to slow the inevitable failure of Democracy and the backwards slide into oligarchical or monarchical rulership! Maybe even fascist dictatorial regime! But don’t you worry your sweet head over it. It will all be over soon. I will give it until 2030! And that’s me being generous!”

With that she tapped Remy on the nose with her finger and said: “Boop!”

Remy heard music then, like he always did:  _ You know you can't hold me forever. I didn't sign up with you. I'm not a present for your friends to open. This boy's too young to be singing...the blues… _

Remy would much prefer dealing with Sabretooth than those people, because at least with Creed, you knew what you were getting yourself into.

_ So goodbye yellow brick road. Where the dogs of society howl. You can't plant me in your penthouse. I'm going back to my plough... _

When Rogue began to talk, he realized he’d grossly underestimated her. She was not some naive girl. Though he partly wondered if he weren’t painting her as more mature than she was; the excuse of every adult man who wanted to get into the pants of a teenage girl.  _ She was so mature for her age, I swear, officer,  _ said every pervert ever. Shaking himself free of this thought, he brought his mind back to the way she spoke, her passion for her topic. She may have derived her inspiration from a leader, a dreamer (Xavier?), but when she spoke it was with her own voice. She was not parroting the opinions of adults, but speaking from the true knowledge of experience.

She hadn’t known him for but an hour and had shown him her heart. He could have reached out and crushed it with the weight of all he’d seen. But she had something he didn’t: passion. Whereas he had only anger. He’d destroyed enough things, and he loved her beautiful heart whole. He admired her hope for the future of society. He had hope too, but for the individual, not the whole. The whole was mindless and greedy. The person was thoughtful and generous. 

When Greycrow saved his life from either being broiled by the desert or frozen by it, Remy tried, really tried to not see the man as a lost cause. To see the good in someone. He needed a microscope. An electron microscope. He did not like the man, Greycrow. Remy was pretty sure he was a murderer for hire. But he thought if he could just set the man’s feet on the right path and send him down a few steps, he’d realize it was a much easier road to walk. Remy would later come to realize that he truly was a sap, sucker, completely gullible. 

Remy was wedged between a rock and a hard place. He had barely enough strength to crawl to the granite outcropping and hide himself there, willing the flames in his chest to die down. They didn’t die down, they grew and consumed him. And this time, instead of exploding out, he exploded in. He looked down the front of his tee-shirt to see his white heart alight and glowing through his skin.

_ E.T. ...phone...home?  _

Well, this was a new and alarming development. Essex was wrong about something though. Remy wasn’t going to obliterate himself. He was going to obliterate everything else, leaving himself stranded on an empty wasteland of a planet with no one but himself to blame. Like the Little Prince, only no shooting star was going to come and take him away. He  _ was _ the star. And he’d be there, alone, for a million billion years until he eventually collapsed on himself and turned into a dense black void of warped reality. 

Was he going to fall into despair? No. That is not the way he did things. Not if there was some small shred of hope. He’d seen it in Rogue’s eyes. Xavier the man may be gone, but his ideas were alive. And maybe Remy would find some clue, some additional research, in the man’s files. Something to give him a lead to the next idea, the next discovery. That was the thing about knowledge, like the universe, there was always more and more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Entering and Breaking
> 
> Remy's Random References  
> Goodbye Yellow Brick Road - Elton John  
> E.T. - Stephen Spielberg film  
> The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry


	10. Chapter 10

Confident with the information he’d gathered over the past few weeks, plus what he’d learned from Rogue, Gambit was ready to set a date. It was time to uncover the truth about The Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters. He decided on a Friday, as the residents may be out enjoying pre-weekend diversions. But when he looked at the calendar, he saw the following Friday bore an ominous date: October 31st, Halloween. Having been fed a healthy diet of superstition, myths, and portents of doom growing up, Gambit felt a chill go up his spine. 

He prepped his gear, laying his kit out on the bed. Lock picks, wires, scoring tool, pocket knife, scissors...this poky thingy that one normally uses to extricate meat from stubborn shellfish (very handy). He organized the bits and bobs into pouches on a fabric case holder, folded it, rolled it and tied it. Cable, grappling gear, infrared binoculars, keypad break, head-mount flashlight, a can of WD-40, baby powder (who needs chafing?). When he pulled out his work attire from where it was hidden under the bed, he looked at his two options. His old duds, the Guild uniform he’d always worn. Or his new suit; he was going to make a name for himself in that getup. No one was going to forget about Gambit in a hurry wearing this, that’s for sure. Weighing his options, he decided to stick with the old: ragged, gray-green tunic over black long-sleeved shirt, as the sleeves of his tunic had been ripped from his arms three years ago. Brown breeches, green cowl and hooded cape, soft leather boots, belt. There would be plenty of time to break in the new gear, once he got his powers back under control, his life back on track.

Lastly, several decks of playing cards, his bo staff in two pieces, retracted for now, to be kept in a holster on his thigh. 

He had stopped at the library one last time to gather his research, return his carrel key. They seemed sad to see him go. He didn’t have a forwarding address, a phone number, or “electronic-mail.” Lara had apologized that the final article hadn’t arrived in time for his departure.

“Harvard has a copy, but it’s in offsite storage,” Lara said. “But next week…”

“That’s all right, Lara,” he told her. “You never said a thing about what I was looking at, did you?”

She shook her head. “Of course not,” she told him. “Patron privacy is part of our code of ethics. Federal agents couldn’t drag it out of me, not under threats of torture or  _ death _ !”

“What a bunch of radical militants you all are,” he told her. 

“John, this place is for everybody,” she gestured to the surrounding library. “All people, all genders, all incomes, human or mutant. We serve all comers and treat everyone the same. You need a book? A computer to fill out a job application? Newspaper? Music? Weird, vaguely creepy research studies? Somewhere to run your kids out of energy? Or just a place to come in out of the cold. No judgments. The door is open.”

He considered her. “You do God’s work. Also, your boyfriend is a lucky man,” he said to her.

“Oh, he knows. I tell him that every day.”

Remy pulled on his Guild uniform. It was a little loose in the breeches. He supposed he’d lost some weight. Top Ramen wasn’t cutting it. Looking at himself in the mirror, he felt a wave of nostalgia for the family he’d lost. Maybe once he found some answers, got some help with his powers, he could see them again. If he hadn’t burned all his bridges. He scraped his long hair into a ponytail, and bound it with a bit of leather. Now he really looked the part of Guild thief. Hey, maybe he could go Trick-or-Treating after, but he didn’t think anyone would guess what his costume was.

“Don’t you know? I’m the last vestige of the Celtic druidical mysticism of ancient Gaul, specifically from the region now known as France! Isn’t it obvious?” He should probably just go as Spiderman instead.

He pulled on the remainder of his kit, hid tools in various pockets, playing cards at the ready at his hip and up his sleeves. Bo staff on his left thigh, cables and grappling gear at his belt. He’d be going in through the tunnel under the mansion. He was less fearful of discovering mutant prisoners in the basement when Rogue had denounced the X-Terminators. Gambit felt some reassurance about that and crossed off Marvel Girl, Cyclops, Angel, Iceman and Beast from his list. Five less things to worry about. Xavier, also gone. Added: Kurt, Colossus (Gentle Giant), and Kitty (possibly the Ghost Girl entry), and Ororo. Goddess, enh? Like a weather goddess maybe? Remy had been told multiple times by multiple family members that his imagination was out of control, so maybe the Weather Witch hypothesis was a stretch. Then there was a score of younger mutants, all wild cards. And Wet Blanket, whoever that was. 

It was late afternoon. He’d spied several porches decorated with jack-o-lanterns, little costumed kids with empty bags, eager to begin their begging. Gambit was hidden just off a local highway. The highway intersected with the trajectory of the mysterious NYC-bound tunnel. At the intersection, there was a small creek, and the road went over a small bridge. Under the bridge, the side of the cement tunnel was exposed. One might assume it was for runoff, if you didn’t know it led straight to the school. Remy pulled himself under the bridge. There were bats under there, and as he moved towards the side of the tunnel, they took flight. Very spooky.

_ Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you? We got some work to do now… _

Gambit assumed he’d have to blow a hole in the side of the tunnel, but there was a small metal grate there, perhaps for ventilation. Gambit removed it with a time delay charge of his powers. The grate fell from the opening and Gambit grabbed it before it could fall into the creek below. He pulled himself into the tunnel through the small opening. The interior was dark, a little damp, but not as wet as he’d imagined it would be. He could see there were footprints in the tunnel floor going back and forth. He replaced the grate, wedged it in place. 

First things first. Let’s do a little check-in with the Big Guy. Gambit took a knee, crossed himself. Began the Lord’s Prayer. “‘...Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil, Amen.’ Okay, let’s do this thing. Guardian angel? You good? Saint Étienne,  _ mon patron protecteur _ ? Ready to party? Let’s get to getting.”

Gambit pulled up his hood, drew the cowl up in front of his mouth and nose. He began a steady silent pace down the tunnel, alert to all sounds. It became amazingly easy to tamp down the inner glow once he’d reached a steady flow state. He had wrapped his chest several times with an elastic bandage, to dampen the glow. Maybe next time, he could leave the flashlight behind and lighten the load. Just use the twinkle twinkle little star in his chest.

He was about two miles from the School. Gambit came to a fork in the tunnel, where it opened up into a larger rectangular space where various pipes and passages interconnected. To continue straight would take him to the school. To go southwest would take him to...New Jersey? He paused. A cold wind blew from Jersey, bringing a whiff of oil, garbage, and was that a faint ammonia scent...of cat? He shuddered.

Gambit continued onwards. As he drew nearer to the School, he became cautious, looking for signs of security equipment. He doubted the door to their sub-basement would be left ajar. He came to a turning in the tunnel and paused. The access point to the School should be to his left. Gambit peered around the corner. It was very dark, even for his eyes. Gambit retrieved his binoculars, peered down the short length of the tunnel, looking at a world in black and green. He spied a large, round steel door with a wheel in the center. Next to the door, a keypad lock. Above the door was a security camera, protected under a small black glass dome. Gambit crouched and retrieved a bit of gravel. He charged it, and flicked it at the camera’s dome. The little dome fractured, but did not shatter. Creating a screen of fissured glass to obstruct the camera’s view. Gambit approached the lock, lifted the protective plastic cover, and with his crab-claw pokey-thing, pulled off the touch-screen module for entering the PIN code. Beneath that was a connector, which he pulled from the module. A low level charge from his powers short-circuited the internal electronics, preventing a tampering alarm from going off and rebooting the system again and again as it reset the failed-attempts counter. Gambit took out his breaker, connected it to the lock via a pair of twisted wires, pressed GO and watched as the breaker began rolling through the four digit combinations, 0000, 0001, 0002, and so on, at lightning fast speed. It had an amazingly fast processing time, as he’d appropriated the tech from S.H.I.E.L.D. years ago. The jet theft was just a diversion. 

A song played in his head as he watched the numbers tick by, a little ditty out of 1970s era Sesame Street:  _ One-two-three-four, five...six-seven-eight-nine, ten...eleven, TWELVE. Doo doo do doo dooo…. _

The breaker clicked through three numbers and Gambit’s grin widened as his anticipation grew. The final number clicked into place with a soft beep. Number Seven! Finally, a lucky sign! He removed the breaker, reinstalled the keypad module, and pressed ENTER. The lock in the door disengaged. A liberal application of WD-40 on the wheel and hinges, then a short wait while the oil did it’s job. He tossed a grappling line over an overhead pipe while he waited, hooked it to his belt. Gambit took the wheel and slowly turned it. The door still squeaked a bit, and made a clanging sound that echoed down the tunnel. Gambit grimaced, listening for any indication that he’d been detected. He clung to the wheel on the door, pushed off the wall with a booted foot, and swung the door open, with himself hidden behind it. He pulled himself upward by the grappling line, inverted himself, and peered into the sub-basement from the top half of the door, Spidey-style. Gambit spied another security camera just inside. Another pebble and the camera was compromised. Flippity-flip from the grappling gear, to land silently on the sub-basement floor on all fours, uncouple himself from the gear. 

_ Spiderman, Spiderman...does whatever a spider can... _

The interior hall floors, wall, and ceiling were composed of panels of sheet metal, an odd choice for interior decor. There was a whisper of electronics clicking and data transference coming from behind the panels. The whole place felt alive. Gambit walked silently. Sneak, sneak, sneaky, sneak-sneak. He came upon what seemed to be the security surveillance room. It was unmanned. If Gambit could barely figure out Microsoft Windows 3.1, he wasn’t going to have a prayer with the machinery in this room. The monitors did give him an idea of where the cameras were positioned though. Onwards and upwards, he thought, to the elevator shaft. He came to a perpendicular corridor to his left. There were several rooms along its length, all with sliding doors in the open position. Holding cells. Gambit frowned. They all appeared to be empty, but it bode ill that a school should have its own prison. As he passed an infirmary, he thought he detected the sound of a voice speaking. 

“Anything to report, Rogue?” 

Gambit froze. 

“A whole lot of nothin’, Bets. Ah’m cold and Ah’m bored. Ah guess no news is good news. Anything from the others?”

Rogue’s answering voice seemed to ring in a hollow space. Gambit crept forward to an open door. He peered inside. It appeared a giant technological atrium, or a silo, stretching up from the sub-basement and into the basement level above. A long walkway was suspended in the center of the big empty space, a terminal of some kind at its center. 

“No word from Wolverine,” Bets answered. Her voice was upper-crust London, posh.

_ Posh Spice _ ...Remy’s brain whispered.  _ Oh no _ , Gambit thought, bracing for what would happen next.

_ If you wannabe my lover...you gotta get with my friends! _

_ No, no, shut up shut up shut up!  _ Gambit screamed at himself.

At the terminal in the center of the room, a purple haired woman’s head turned in his direction.

_ Slam your body down and wind it all around...Slam your body down and zigazig ah! _

The woman paused, shook her head in annoyance, then returned to her work. 

Gambit exhaled and moved as quickly away as possible. Somehow he’d missed accounting for “Bets.” One of the new students, perhaps?

The next turning should get him to the central corridor with the elevator shaft. He paused at the turning and peered around the corner. The elevator was descending. It let off a soft chime as it reached the sub-basement level. The doors swished open. Gambit heard a strange grumbling and clicking noise. Something was coming out of the elevator. Something purple. Gambit’s eyes couldn’t make sense of it. It looked like the tail-end of a...dragon? A purple dragon, about the size of a large cat, emerged backwards from the elevator. Gambit pulled himself back from the turning, his back pressed against the wall. He was conflicted. One: there’s a  _ dragon _ coming down the hall. Two: There’s a  _ dragon! _ Coming down the hall! Dragons exist! Baby dragon! Real life Norbert! 

_ Get a grip, man!  _ Gambit told himself. He peeked again. The little dragon was carrying what appeared to be a bag of microwave popcorn. As it trotted along, popped kernels tumbled from the bag. By some miracle, it was trotting away from where Gambit stood. He waited until the creature had reached the end of the corridor before he moved forward to hide behind the elevator shaft. He peered around the elevator in time to see the dragon get its head stuck in the bag of popcorn. It sneezed, and the bag shot off down the hall and out of sight. Popcorn exploded everywhere. The creature pursued its quarry, scampering down the hall. 

Gambit stood for a moment. Held his arm in front of his face, pinched himself. _ Is this real life? _

Turning to the elevator doors now, he pried them open with a flat bar of metal he usually used for breaking into vehicles. The doors whispered open and he stepped into the car. Gambit popped open the access panel in the ceiling and climbed through. On top of the car, he found a small metal ladder on the interior wall of the shaft. He climbed up it, past the basement level to the ground floor. He paused to listen at the doors, searching with his senses to detect any sound or movement beyond. Gambit climbed into the shallow door well, forced open the sliding doors. 

He was now in the School building proper, much different than the technological wizardry below. Dark wood floors, white plaster walls, soft furnishings, rugs, gentle lighting, art on the walls. He was in the space just behind the main staircase in the foyer. The foyer was dark. Before leaving the shelter of the curving staircase, he cast his senses about. There was music coming from one of the upper floors. It sounded like...the Monster Mash? So, a Halloween party for the kiddies.  _ Perfect _ .

Xavier’s office was to the left from where he stood at the staircase. Gambit moved across the foyer like a wraith, paused in the deep well of the door, which was paneled in dark wood. A brass doorknob under his hand. The door was unlocked. He passed through and closed the door silently behind him. Gambit took a quick survey of his surroundings. Wood floor, covered in a lush decorative rug, two mullioned picture windows flanking the corner, desk with blotter and lamp, two chairs for guests, a settee under one window, a bookcase along the rear wall behind the desk chair. To his left, rows and rows of wood filing cabinets. He made a beeline for them. He slid the first drawer open. The entirety was full of hanging files with the name, ‘Grey, Jean’ on the tabs. Ms. Grey must have been interesting indeed. He removed the first folder to examine the contents, clicked on his flashlight. A profile of the woman. She was the telepath/telekinetic. Marvel Girl, then? What he read there filled him with a mix of joy and relief. The earliest files on Ms. Grey, then a small child, described how Xavier had portioned off the telepathic abilities of his young charge, sparing her from further trauma until such a time that she could control her powers. Could it be that easy, Gambit wondered? This proves it can be done! Jean’s file was extensive, she must have gone on living her life after this, without the burden of uncontrollable powers weighing her down. There followed a sensation of missed opportunity, however. Xavier was gone. So who could perform this same operation for him? He scanned his internal catalog. There was a telepath at the New York City Hellfire Club. He could approach her. It would be awful to go there, he might have to make an exchange for services, but it was possible. It could be worth it. Emma Frost was a beautiful, sensual woman, maybe he could...win her over? 

Gambit replaced the file, closed the drawer. He exhaled. He had another clue, another lifeline to cling to. He rose to leave, thinking to simply escape through the window, then paused. On a whim, he opened the drawer marked with an R. There was Rogue’s file, a single file, not a drawer full like Jean Grey. He removed it, hesitated, then glanced inside. Personality disorder. Uncontrollable powers. Manipulation- and fear-based trauma. Gambit quickly shut the file and replaced it, feeling bad for having looked. Feeling, at the same time, a deep connection to her. And too, why did Rogue merit only one folder, and Jean a drawer? Why wasn’t she getting the same amount of attention, of help? He quietly pushed the drawer closed.

The desk lamp turned on. All at once Gambit felt a rush of sudden fear, filing his mouth the taste of metal. His heart throbbed in his throat. He’d been discovered. Gambit stood and turned, anxious about who he might find. A tall figure stood before the corner windows. His eyes glowed red in the darkness, a pale red diamond on his forehead. There came a whispering rustle of fabric, a strange sort of cape. It seemed Dr. Essex had procured himself a new  _ ensemble _ . 

_ Essex is  _ here _ ,  _ Gambit thought.  _ He’s  _ part  _ of this? _

“Have you discovered the answers you seek, Monsieur LeBeau?” Essex asked conversationally, palming a bust of Sigmund Freud from the corner of Xavier’s desk. “You believe you now have options? I can assure you, your only option -- the only choice that was  _ ever  _ available to you -- is to come with me. To serve  _ me. _ ”

Gambit shook his head, slowly, not taking his eyes from the demon before him. He imagined himself taking a quick side-step towards the window, throwing himself though it, but before he could turn his vision to action, he found himself frozen on the spot. Held in the familiar grip of a telekinetic force. His stomach revolted in fear. 

“Do not fight. Come peacefully. Listen to me, LeBeau. Even now, the young woman you fancy is passing by on her rounds. Should you decide to revolt, there may occur an... _ accident.  _ Surely you do not want to be the unwitting cause of her untimely death? See her fall from the sky...a charred corpse. A casualty of your idiocy?”

Essex raised a hand in Gambit’s direction, beckoned him forward with his fore and middle fingers. “Come along, then.”

Gambit released a sound that was half sob, half scream. Choking, he took a step forward of his own free will. Another put him within a few feet of Essex. Behind him, in the window, it was just as Essex had said. A woman flew past, silhouetted against the dark night sky. He could see the moonlight reflected on the bright white stripe of her hair. Maybe he could delay, until she’d flown past? Another step and he was within range of Essex. A pale hand reached for his shoulder. 

The door to the office opened. Gambit turned to look, with Essex’s hand hovering over him like the blade of a guillotine. A man in the doorway looked up from the item he carried, it appeared to be…

A Twix bar. On the man’s head, a pair of glittering devil horns. The man’s countenance was dour, as if he wanted to be no part of the fun. Then he looked up from his candy and took in the sight of both Gambit and Essex in a frozen tableau. His blue eyes widened. 

Gambit’s head snapped from Essex to the new arrival, then back again. He wanted to scream. Instead, an unhinged hysterical laugh bubbled up his throat. He put both hands to his skull, feeling tears come to his eyes.

He was trapped between Essex on his left, and to his right, the Master of Magnetism: Magneto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy's random references:  
> Scooby Doo Where Are You?  
> Twelve Song, Pinball Number Count - Sesame Street  
> Wannabe - The Spice Girls  
> Norbert - Harry Potter again
> 
> Next: Run Away!!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween!

Gambit felt the magnetic pulse rush towards him, saw it too, somehow. The energy spoke to him, he heard the star in his chest respond to the call. Gather it, reverse it, send it back. 

_ Equal and opposite reaction _ . 

Every bit of metal in the office glowed white-hot bright, pink on the edges, then launched themselves away from where Gambit stood. Pens, lamps, electronics, door knobs and pulls, wires ripped from the walls, exploded outwards. The bust of Freud in Essex’s hand launched itself into the doctor’s chest. Then everything exploded, the windows blew outwards, the pink-white light flared into the darkened yard. 

_ How did that…? Did he? Did we?  _ Gambit wondered.

_ Did I do that?  _ Steve Urkel said.

Given the choice between the devil he knew (well, they were acquainted anyway), and the devil in the plastic glitter horns, Gambit chose the latter. He launched himself through the office door, flew over Magneto’s prone form. As he leapt, he snagged the Twix bar from the man’s loosened grip. 

“Yoink,” Gambit said, as he landed on the foyer floor. He moved to the front door, which suddenly exploded inward in a shower of wooden fragments. Gambit threw up his arms to protect himself from the flying debris. In the now open doorway stood Rogue.

“Stop!... _ Thief!? _ ” she said, and pointed at him.

Gambit tossed her the candy bar, which hit her chest. Instinctively, she caught it, looked down in momentary confusion.

“Trick or treat,” he told her as the candy bar flashed bright in a shower of blinding pink sparks. 

Rogue threw her arms before her eyes, blinded. Gambit turned and fled to the elevator. A charged playing card blew the doors open. He sailed through the empty space, seized the cable for the elevator car in the center, slid down in a controlled spiral. Releasing the cable, he made himself a straight line, feet crashing through the access panel. He landed forcefully in the car, it bounced him upward like a trampoline. Lifted from his feet he tossed another card, exploded open the doors and he came down through the newly opened egress. In the hall, he ran in the opposite direction from where he came. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself moving through the corridors, visualizing the connections between halls. Moving himself through the maze like Pac-Man in an arcade game.

_ Waka-waka-waka-waka… _

He rounded the corner at the end of the hall, spotted the purple dragon. It was facing him now, its mouth open, drawing a breath and fluttering its wings. Gambit leapt, twisted and inverted himself to fly over the dragon. For a split-second, his and the dragon’s head were no more than a foot apart. He gave it a tiny pat on the head as he sailed by.  _ Good Norbert. _

Landing on his feet, he was off at a sprint. A gout of flame followed him, setting fire to the end of his cape. His hands smacked his own ass in an attempt to put it out. 

“Oh, ah!  _ Hot, hot, hot _ !” he hissed.

He ran towards the east wing where the entrance to the tunnel was. Rounding another corner and not slowing his momentum, he ran a few paces along the exterior angle of the corner, his feet tapping along the wall. As he rounded the corner however, he was stopped short. He slid in his soft boots for a foot or two. Before him in the corridor was a woman, chocolate brown skin ( _ stop thinking about candy! _ ), platinum white mohawk, body clad in black leather, shit-kicker boots (ooh, he’d like a pair of those!). She was poised to fight. Something about her made him think she would fight  _ dirty _ . The woman didn’t hesitate for a moment, but launched one of her boots in his direction with a battle cry. Gambit narrowly blocked the kick, she landed on her hands and feet, swung her opposite heel in an arc towards his jaw. Gambit threw himself backwards. The woman was forcing him back, back into the corner. 

All at once, the space around them began to flash with red light, an alarm sounded, a cool voice spoke:  _ Intruder Alert. Intruder Alert. East Wing. Sub-Level Two.  _ Then the walls began to shift and move, cutting off means for escape. 

Block a punch, duck, pull back, block, block block, leg block. This woman was... _ fucking incredible _ , Gambit had to admit. He was not a match for her hand-to-hand skills, close, but not close enough. His forearms were getting absolutely pummeled. The wall behind him started to shift, to slide closed. 

He moved right to avoid a thrown fist.  _ I don’t have  _ time _ for this…! _

Suddenly, time stretched, pulled like taffy. Except for Gambit, who was still moving at normal speed. The woman however, seemed to be moving through molasses. He saw her eyes widen as she realized something strange was going on. 

_ Time is relative _ . 

Now able to see her every move coming, Gambit seized her arm as her fist moved past his face. Using her momentum, he threw her down the hallway back towards the corner where she hit the far wall upside-down, then slid to hit the floor. The moving wall panel sealed Sid and Nancy’s Collective Wet Dream from view. Gambit turned and fled, time once again flowing at normal course. 

He was back in the hall near the holding cells. They went off to his left. To his right, the corridor towards the tunnels. He made to turn right when a figure emerged from the left. A soft and curvaceous form clad in pink, violet hair curled over her shoulders. It was “Bets.” Implementing a defensive move he’d witnessed last Sunday, the only good defensive play he’d seen the whole game, he drove his body weight into her left shoulder, grasped her left upper arm while he himself pushed off against her with his left hand, spinning his whole body counter-clockwise. She spun too and was thrown face-first into a wall while Gambit made a dash for the backfield. Gambit felt a brush of her telepathic powers in the back of his mind.

_ De-Fense! Stomp! De-Fense! Stomp! _

_ A whistle blew. Holding! Five yard penalty. First down. _

_ Dammit all! Let’s see the replay! _

Oof, he did not have the build for defensive maneuvers. 

The woman behind him let out a sort of frustrated cry. Her grip on him released.

Gambit veered down the hall towards the circular door. It was now in sight. All around him, the steel-plated walls began to vibrate, crumple. The Master of Magnetism couldn’t be far behind. An extra burst of speed and he was launching himself at the circular door, riding it as it flew open into the tunnel. It rebounded off the back wall as Gambit spun, landing in the tunnel at a crouch. The door was closing itself, propelled by the momentum after having struck the wall. Gambit threw himself against it, spun the wheel to seal the door. Running backwards several paces, he threw two cards at the upper side walls. The explosions collapsed the walls, debris blocked the door. Gambit turned and ran back the way he came, back towards where he had gained access to the tunnels. A little more than two miles and he’d be out, free.

As he neared the tunnel fork, he came skidding to a halt. A figure was emerging from the New Jersey tunnel. It was a cat. A very, very big cat. 

The cat paused, sniffing the air. His pointy-toothed smile was gleefully cruel. Gambit’s insides turned to ice and he broke out in a cold sweat. 

“Boo,” said Sabretooth. “Did I scare ya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy’s Random References:
> 
> Urkel - Family Matters sitcom
> 
> PAC Man - video game from the 80s
> 
> Sid & Nancy - Sid Vicious, punk rocker, Nancy was his girlfriend. It was not the best relationship ever.
> 
> Next: Remy Horror Picture Show


	12. Chapter 12

Gambit made to move past Sabretooth, to dash down the NYC-bound tunnel. As Sabretooth advanced however, Gambit spied something coming from the City. A tall form, muscular shoulders and arms. A scraping sound could be heard as the man dragged something behind him. Sickly green sparks danced from where the tip of a barbed metal staff dragged on the tunnel floor. Gambit knew him: Harpoon. A second figure flanked Harpoon, lanky, ropy, malnourished-looking, tangle of greasy white hair hung limply on either side of his gaunt face: Riptide. 

And Gambit thought he’d couldn’t be more terrified after having been pinned between Essex and Magneto. This was far, far worse. 

Sabretooth leapt high, Gambit went low, springing forward to his hands, propelling himself in a front-flip to land before the wall. Above him, a pipe no more than four-feet in diameter, about seven feet over his head. He leapt upwards, caught the edge of the pipe. Feet scrambling on the wall, he launched himself into the pipe. He felt Sabretooth’s claws grip him by the end of his cape, fabric tore. He ripped the cape and cowl from his face and head, let Sabretooth have it before he could be yanked back. He was running half folded over, half crawling down the length of the corrugated pipe. A light at the end, the length of a football field away. Sabretooth and Harpoon would be too big to get him here. Not Riptide, however.

“ _The..itsy...bitsy...spiiiider_ ,” Riptide sang, his raspy insane voice echoing down the tube. Gambit struggled to quicken his pace. “ _Climbed up...the….water spout_ …”

“Please, God in Heaven,” Gambit gasped, the end of the tunnel coming closer. 

“ _Down...came...the rain...and_ …” here Riptide paused. Knowing what was about to happen, Gambit launched himself at the end of the pipe, gripped the edge, yanked himself forward. “Washed... _the spider_ out _!_ ” 

  
As Gambit unfolded himself from the pipe, hundreds of bone spikes exploded from the pipe above like buckshot from a hunting rifle, peppering the wall beyond. Gambit now found himself in a long rectangular corridor. Below the pipe was a walkway with a rusting iron railing. Beyond the railing, a swift moving flow of water, runoff from the city streets, flowing like an underground river. When Gambit fell from the pipe to hit the walkway, he found his feet flew out from underneath him. He hit the ground forcefully, feeling waves of nausea. The tunnel twisted, inverted, began to spin. 

Gambit groaned, crawling in an unknown direction, eyes squeezed shut. His stomach heaved, but having nothing in it, he only retched bile. 

“Don’t go, widdle Wemykins,” said a taunting voice. “Stay and pway with me.”

Gambit retched again: Vertigo. He struggled in the direction he thought would take him away from her. Then realized his mistake and not a moment too soon. He rolled onto his back as the heel of her foot crashed down beside his head. The river _should_ be to his left. He rolled right, grasped the iron railing, heaved himself into the drink. 

The current swept him away and out of Vertigo’s influence. He was propelled along, feeling debris and trash buffer him in the filthy water. Gambit’s legs scrambled for purchase, if he could just stand… Up ahead, a drop off. Water cascaded off the edge into a dark void. As he passed over the lip of the waterfall, he grabbed at a pipe to stop his fall. He could feel flakes of rust and corroded pipe crumble in his gloved grip. The pipe came away from the wall on one side, and for a moment, he dangled over empty space. All around him, inside this great interior tower, water flowed in from all directions. Below him, a whirlpool. The pipe gave way with a screech and Gambit was falling down, down, down, to land in the water below; he was submerged. 

Immediately, he felt himself drawn towards the center of the whirlpool. His life, literally circling the drain. Kicking, reaching with strong strokes, he struggled away from the suction. As he spun round and round, he spotted a ladder going upwards. He struggled against the current for it, his fingers brushed the metal but could not grasp it. Again he circled. This time he readied himself, launched himself toward the ladder, muscles in his sides tearing in effort. Right hand grasped and held firm. He pulled himself from the current, and began to climb. 

At the top of the ladder, he collapsed. Finding himself in yet another tunnel, this one tall with an arched top. At one end, he saw a keyhole shaped passage. The light beyond was warm flickering red-yellow, a fire. He pulled himself to his feet, staggered towards the light. Behind him, a noise. He turned. Arclight, Prism: a dynamic duo. Arclight clapped her hands, and a bright light flashed, amplified by Prism’s body. Gambit watched a glow build within Prism’s crystalline form. Gambit ran. 

As he dashed into the great alley beyond the passage, he dove to one side. A white-hot beam of light blasted from the corridor behind him, scorching the floor and far wall of the alley. Gambit was blinded. He blinked and tumbled down a set of concrete steps, landing on the ground on his back. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision while also crawling backwards and away from where he knew Arclight and Prism to be, where they would soon be coming for him. Gambit’s hand came down in something soft. Wetness saturated his glove. He blinked spots, looked down. His hand was in someone’s face, that is, if the person still had a face to begin with. With a horrified cry, he lurched away from the corpse. He saw then he was in an enormous space, with an arching ceiling overhead. At even intervals all along the walls were keyhole-shaped passageways like the one he’d come through. Several fires burned along the center of the alley in barrel-like containers. The passage was littered with bodies of the deceased, men, women...children. Blood splattered the walls, a rivulet of red ran down the center of the alley.

Gambit struggled to breathe through his panic. All along the alley, figures were appearing, seemingly within every open doorway. A rogue’s gallery of horror. Every face he could put a name to. Every face was turned in his direction, eyes shining with malicious, malevolent glee. He knew with certainty that he was about to die. Horribly, painfully. There would be no corpse to return home to his family’s crypt. The monsters delighted in his very obvious terror, closing in on him from all sides. 

“I call dibs on his heart,” Sabretooth said.

“That’s fine,” Vertigo said airily. “It’s not the part of him _I_ was interested in anyway.”

Sabretooth’s hand closed on Gambit’s right upper arm. To his left, yet another monster stood, Blockbuster. Together they pulled Gambit to his feet. He was unable to stand on his own. Slowly, and almost gently, they walked him toward a wall, pinned him there against it. 

“Little help, Harpoon?” Sabretooth said.

Gambit released a strangled sound, struggling against the hands gripping him. Harpoon readed a weapon, jammed it through Gambit’s right shoulder joint and pinned him to the wall. He screamed and his legs collapsed. He hung by his shoulder from the weapon. A second harpoon went through his left armpit. Absolute agony. It seemed he was not bleeding. Instead, he felt his body try to knit itself back together, around the murder weapons pinning him to the wall, making them a part of himself. Gambit did not recognize the sounds he was making as coming from a human. Sabretooth leaned close, his fetid breath hot in Gambit’s face. He usually preceded his actions with some kind of threat, but this time he simply raked his claws down Gambit’s chest, from the base of his throat to his groin, shredding his uniform, the elastic bandages hidden beneath. 

As one, the murderers looked down at Gambit’s glowing chest. 

“That’s new,” said Blockbuster slowly. 

There was no blood, just ribbons of pink and white energy shining from wounds. They knit themselves back together. Light was bleeding from Gambit’s shoulders where he was pinned by the two harpoons. The monsters considered this carefully, looked at one another quizzically. 

“So it’ll just take that much longer to rip him to shreds,” Sabretooth shrugged.

“The boss man said not to kill him,” Blockbuster intoned. 

“Sinister can get fucked,” Sabretooth said. “He’s not given me a dime. I’m taking my payment in blood. His,” he jabbed a claw into Gambit’s gut. 

“What Sinny doesn’t know, won’t kill him!” Riptide announced shrilly.

Sabretooth grinned. “And I won’t forget that runt shitbrick, Wolverine. _I can’t wait_. Sinister said the back door to the School would be open. Those stupid mutie kids will never see us coming!”

Gambit felt a hot wash of dread, of terror beyond his previous imaginings. 

Once more, the killers closed in. Across the alley, past the bodies and the burning barrels, another figure appeared. Gambit recognized him. His blood-spattered face was a rictus of murderous glee, unleashed in his element. Gambit’s heart collapsed. 

“John,” he said quietly, miserably, with defeat. “Why did you do this?”

Apparently, the alley was a whispering gallery. Greycrow heard Gambit’s voice as if he’d spoken directly into his ear. His expression changed. His black eyes met Gambit’s red and black ones. He looked surprised.

“H-hey,” Greycrow said, haltingly. “Hey! Let him go.”

“Fuck off, Injun,” Sabretooth said. “This doesn’t concern you. We got beef with this punk.”

Greycrow raised his rifle, shot Sabretooth in the shoulder. The huge cat snarled. “You’re going to pay for that!”

Greycrow fired again, and in a fury, Sabretooth grasped Gambit by the throat, choking off his air. Claws dug into his flesh. “You want this kid so bad?” Sabretooth said. “You can have him back in pieces!”

Greycrow’s teeth were bared in a snarl of hatred. His gaze shifted from Sabretooth to Gambit. He took in the sight of Gambit’s glowing heart. Greycrow changed his target, pointing his weapon at Gambit’s chest.

“‘Bye, Remy,” he heard Greycrow whisper.

“John,” Gambit croaked. “Don’t--.”

“Don’t feel bad. You tried. Fought for me. This is how I can thank you.”

“Please. _Don’t_.”

The rifle fired. The round flew. Then the world exploded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Knocked for a loop.


	13. Chapter 13

He was staring into infinity and a million potential realities. The universe was almost like what Hawking had described; though he'd neglected to mention the flying space dinosaurs, but that might have been in the footnotes. He felt bits of himself drifting away, his internal catalog scattered to the inevitable expansion of the universe. It wasn't so bad, this whole feeling of being connected to everything. At least he'd finally understand... _why._ Just why. Even as he lost himself into infinity. The stars were talking to him, whispering about him.

_Hey,_ he said. _Hey girl, what's your name?_

The star winked.

_Bit of a flirt, enh? You can call me…_

_Call me, what? Ishmael...?_ No, that didn't sound right.

_What's my name again?_

_Who am I?_

_Who?_

Who dat?!

_Hey, I know this one._

Who dat? Who dat?

_Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?!_

" _In other words, three-dimensional reality is an illusion, and that the apparently "solid" world around us...and the dimension of time...is projected from information stored on a flat two-dimensional surface. Like that of a sheet…"_

A soft snapping sound of sun-warmed fabric. A white sheet drifting down over his head. Sitting in the center of a large white mattress, a well-loved black and brown teddy bear in his hand, matted fur, missing an ear. _Marcel?_ he wondered.

"Where's Remy?" asked a warm, loving voice.

He laughed...or was it a giggle? Hidden under the white, warm sheet.

"Where's Reh-mee?" the voice sang.

He was crawling forward toward the voice, crawling across the universe. Her hands tickled him through the sheet, through time and space. Laughter bubbled from his throat.

"Where'd my Remy go?"

Pulling the sheet off of his head he announced: "I'm right here!"

He was thrown back together in the most haphazard fashion, snapping back into a corporeal form, finding himself at the bottom of a crater of broken concrete that was slowly filling with mud. Above him, open sky. He couldn't see the stars, it was raining. Of course it was. The rain fell around him, hissing and evaporating before hitting his skin. Guild uniform, not a stitch left. He crawled out of the muck, laying flat on his stomach on the concrete floor, half in and half out of the crater.

Remy closed his eyes. He could hear voices. He heard an agonized scream, abruptly choked off. On the ground above the tunnels, the sound of emergency vehicles approaching. He reopened his eyes, took in the sight of what remained of the monsters, the bodies of those they'd slain. Nothing was recognizable. Portions of the alley had collapsed. The ground was hot, it steamed in the pattering rain. From his vantage point, Gambit could see figures approaching.

A man, short and sturdily built, wearing a uniform in various shades of brown and orange. Face partially covered by a pointed cowl. He was moving towards where Remy lay.

"This guy's seen some shit," Remy thought, looking at the man's expression. Then: "Did I just say that out loud?"

Though he was still overheated, the man turned Remy over onto his back, not even flinching when his hand burned. The man looked down into Remy's face. Remy looked back. It was the Lumberjack.

"Oh, my gosh," said another voice, Ghost Girl. She was just over the man's shoulder. "He's naked!"

"Nude," Gambit thought. Once again, it seemed like his thoughts were quite loud. "Naked is for sex. Nude is for all other times."

"Oh, my gosh!" the girl said again.

Voices now came from his left. His head rolled in that direction. A monstrous blue furred man appeared, carrying in his arms a fallen angel. Or it would have been an angel if the man had two wings, and not just one. The blue man was covered in the not-angel's blood.

"Oh my stars -," began the blue man, spotting Lumberjack and Ghost Girl.

"Can you hear them too?" Remy asked.

"Beast?" called the Lumberjack in surprise. "What-?"

"Warren is severely injured, in shock. We have to get him to the closest hospital!"

The Lumberjack nodded: "Kurt, too. We're heading back to the mansion."

Remy's head lolled back towards the Lumberjack. Yes, over his shoulder Remy could see the Gentle Giant, now somehow even larger and built of steel, carrying in his arms a smaller dark blue elven man. In the giant's arms, the injured elf looked like a small stuffed toy.

"I…" Beast hesitated, then glanced backwards nervously. "We…"

More voices echoed down the alley. A man made of ice slid into view, bringing with him another man wearing a visor.

"Hey, Geordi La Forge has those same specs," Remy thought. "You know, I didn't understand why they have a British guy playing a French vintner-cum-starship captain, but hey, it's Patrick Stewart- _Sir_ Patrick Stewart. And he's _ah-may-zing…_ "

Cyclops leapt from the ice slide bearing him and onto the ground. He ran towards the Lumberjack, who still crouched by Remy's head.

"Wolverine, who is…?" Cyclops began.

"Don't know," Wolverine said. "He's completely out of his head."

" _Your head will collapse...If there's nothing in it. And you'll ask yourself...Where is my mind?_ " Remy sang weakly.

"Logan…" Cyclops said warily. "I have something to tell you-."

" _Whe-ere is my. Mind?"_

Wolverine tensed then, looked up from Remy. His eyes scanned the darkness. He seemed to be sniffing the air like a dog. "Jean," he said.

A fifth and final figure appeared.

"And what a figure it is," Remy observed. "Hey, girl. What's your name?" He reconsidered his wording. "Excuse me, _woman_. Because clearly you are no girl."

Now all of these strange people were standing around him in the rain. He pointed at them. "'But it wasn't a dream, you were there. And you, and you, and you!'"

"Has he been like this the whole time?" Cyclops asked.

"My friends, we do not have time for this!" Beast urged.

"Hank, take Warren back to the school," Cyclops said. "Iceman, Marvel Girl, backtrack. See if you can find Callisto, Healer. Bring them to the mansion."

"Don't you think they'll be carin' for their own?" Wolverine snapped.

"There are no injured, Logan. Only dead," Cyclops said flatly.

Wolverine turned. "Shadowcat, you take point. Make sure the others can get through all the debris. Betsy!" he called to no one. "We have injured! Prep the infirmary."

He paused for a moment, listening to some silent response. "Bets says there's been a break-in at the mansion. A theft. Mansion is on lock-down. They're disarming the system now."

"Wuh-oh," Remy said.

Shadowcat, Gentle Giant with the elf, and the Beast with his gruesome burden departed at a run. Marvel Girl approached, untied a gold scarf from around her waist, dropped it over Remy's hips. "So Kitty doesn't pass out," she said with a weak smile.

"Jean-," Wolverine began.

"We'll explain later," Marvel Girl said.

Then she and Iceman turned and departed in the opposite direction. Wolverine grasped Remy by the upper arm and lifted him half-upright. Cyclops on his other side touched his shoulder, then jerked his hand away.

"He's hot!" Cyclops exclaimed.

"You're not so bad lookin' yourself, Slim," Remy observed. "Dat your girl? She's ssssmokin'. Regardless of de Geek Chic thing you've got goin' on, I do think you've outkicked your coverage there."

Resolved, Cyclops seized Remy and pulled him into a sitting position, tied the scarf around his waist.

"Let's go," Wolverine said. "Can you stand?"

"Dunno, which way's up?"

"Were you injured in the explosion?" Cyclops asked.

"I am in the explosion; the explosion is in me. One strange man, me."

" _You_ did this?" Cyclops asked, his voice betraying an element of horror.

"Not on purpose. Dat damn fool idiot Greycrow shot me in de chest. Blew himself up, didn't he? Him and everyone else."

Cyclops and Wolverine shared a look. "Do we risk bringing him back to the mansion?" Cyclops asked.

"We can't leave him here," Wolverine said and together the two men pulled Remy to his feet.

"We'll go slow," Cyclops told him. "There's a lot of wreckage for you to walk over."

" _I'm gonna need two pair of shoes...when I get through walking these blues. When I get back to New'orrrlins…_ "

"Who else was in here?" Wolverine demanded as they began to walk in the direction Shadowcat had led the others. "Morlocks? How many?"

"Like H.G. Wells' kinda Morlocks?" Remy asked, confused. "Pretty sure dat's fictional, friend."

"No…," Cyclops made a sound of frustration. "The people who live here...lived here."

"They got blown up too. But...they were already dead by de time I happened along," here he swallowed a tightness in his throat. "They was little kids in here..."

"Who killed them?" Wolverine asked.

"Monsters…" Remy muttered.

Before they left the alley, Wolverine drew up short. Cyclops was left staggering under Remy's full weight as Wolverine dropped his opposite arm. Wolverine crouched, smelling something in the wreckage. "Creed…" he growled low.

"Oh boy, dis guy knows Creed. That's a bad sign," Remy thought, and not in his head.

Wolverine's attention snapped back to Remy. "How do you know Creed?"

"How do _you_ know Creed?" Remy rebutted.

"I'm the one asking the questions here, bub!"

"That's a pretty one-sided conversation, ain't it?"

"We're not having a conversation!"

"Boy, ain't that de truth."

Wolverine snarled at him.

"Witty repartee, mon ami. Okay, I'll tell you dis. I won't speak ill of de dead, especially not on Halloween. Like I need some Creed haint followin' me around. And if he's a friend of yours, I'm-."

"He is not a friend!"

"Good, because I ain't got nothin' nice t'say about him."

Breathing hard through his nose, Wolverine seized Remy's arm again.

"We can get this sorted at the mansion," Cyclops said calmly. "This isn't the place."

The two men flanking Remy propelled him forward once again. "Whatever is convenient to you, Cyke. Because you call the shots, right?"

"Logan, I don't want to have an argument with you right now."

"I imagine it'd be pretty hard to defend yourself, considering you're leading a group of mutant hunters, and what with you hiding the fact that Jean is now somehow _alive_!" Wolverine's voice grew in volume as he spoke. When he spoke next, it was with a calm, cruel irony: "It's been awhile since we last talked. Tell me, how's Maddie and the kid?"

"Mon Dieu, this is like a telenovela," Remy murmured to himself. "Don Cyclopso y El Badger."

"We'll take him to the infirmary," Cyclops said, ignoring Wolverine. "He's clearly suffered some kind of brain trauma."

"You're one t'talk," Remy grumbled.

Cyclops shot him a perplexed look. All the while, they had been walking through the tunnels, Remy stumbling over debris in his bare feet. It seemed his extremities were not quite in alignment. Remy thought perhaps the tunnel was becoming more familiar. But he was still so confused in his head, seeing double, like there were two of him. Except another version of himself was doing the exact opposite of what the current version was doing. When at last they came to the intersection with the tunnel leading to New Jersey, Remy could no longer manage even a shambling walk. He collapsed, and the two men slowly let him kneel on the floor, releasing their grip on his arms.

"We're nearly there," Cyclops told him. "It's not much further."

Remy put his hands over his eyes, trying to block out what he was witnessing. He saw himself running down the tunnel to New Jersey carrying in his arms...a little girl. Only in the reality he was currently experiencing, he was certain that girl was numbered among the dead. He moaned and folded over, his forehead pressing against the concrete. "What am I doing? What have I done?" he said miserably.

Wolverine took him by the shoulder. "C'mon, we'll get you to a doctor. You can get some rest."

"Clothes would also be a good start," Cyclops said dryly.

"When did you get a sense of humor?" Wolverine asked him.

"Seemed to happen around the same time I didn't have to talk to you on a daily basis," Cyclops remarked.

Remy coughed out a laugh. "I'm liking this one," he said, waving a hand in Cyclops' direction.

He was pulled to his feet once more. Once more they continued onwards toward the School. They came to the access tunnel that Remy had not that long ago collapsed with his charged playing cards. There were a few people gathered there. Remy recognized Rogue immediately. She was lifting chunks of concrete as if they were made of styrofoam and not a mixture of rock and sand. The Gentle Giant was also moving aside metal pipes, crumbled concrete and dirt. A third figure was silhouetted in the open round doorway, seemingly not doing anything other than monitoring the work going on.

When Cyclops and Wolverine appeared bearing Remy between them, the three other mutants paused to look up from their work. Remy raised his gaze to look at Rogue, to stare into her green eyes. Her face was a portrait of shock, the manhole cover-sized block of concrete she held fell to the ground.

" _Remy…_?" she gasped.

Remy grimaced. "Hey, girl."

The man in the doorway strode forward and into the glow of light from the work lamps that had been set up in the tunnel. Remy recoiled, stumbling backwards. Cyclops and Wolverine held him firmly.

Magneto pointed a finger at Remy's glowing chest. "That is him. I recognize his eyes. _That's_ the intruder."

Then: "You have a lot to answer for."

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Remy was not very good at answering questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy's Random References:
> 
> Ishmael - Moby Dick, Herman Melville  
> "three dimensional reality" - quote from scholarly article about Hawking's theory on the shape of the universe.  
> Geordi La Forge - character from Star Trek: Enterprise  
> Where Is My Mind - The Pixies  
> SssSmokin' - The Mask  
> I am in the explosion - redo of the Witness saying to Bishop - I am in jail; I am a jail.  
> When I Get Back To New Orleans - Walkin To New Orleans by Fats Domino  
> You were there! - Wizard of Oz
> 
> Next time: The interrogation, part one.


	14. Chapter 14

November, 1997

Gambit had gone from being an injured in-patient to a prisoner in chains faster than you could say 'Jack Robinson.' He was seated on a square metal stool, bolted to the floor, his wrists bound behind his back in metal manacles that covered his hands. The manacles were chained to a loop of metal also bolted in the floor. His ankles were shackled in a similar fashion. He was in a huge empty room, all clad in metal. Above was an observation booth. No one was in the booth at this time, as most of the mutants were assembled and surrounding Gambit where he sat. Thankfully, he had at least been given a pair of pants, if you could call them that.

"Except here I think dese are ladies' britches on account of my balls getting crushed," Gambit complained.

"I just grabbed the first thing I saw that I thought might fit," Cyclops responded irritably.

"And what's with dis big red X over my groin? What is this, like some kinda decorative belt? Poor design choice, in my opinion. Like a target on my-."

"Be. Silent," Magneto said.

Gambit affixed his attention on the super-villain terrorist. _Nice hair_ , he thought, thankfully silently this time. _Maybe you're born with it? Maybe it's Maybelline?_ There was something absolutely repellent about Magneto, and it wasn't just his politics. Gambit actively felt the star in his chest pushing back against the man, as if they were two magnets repelling one another. Their very proximity was like a silent heated argument.

"Let us begin," Magneto stated. "What is your name?"

_What is your quest? What is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?_ He didn't even chastise his brain for its rambling this time, the distraction was welcome.

"I call myself Gambit."

"Is that so? Only that this young woman believes your name to be 'Remy.'" Magneto pointed at Rogue.

"You ever heard of anyone named 'Remy' before? Sounds made up. Must be an alias," Gambit responded.

Rogue made a sound to establish her absolute disgust and contempt for him.

"No, I have not met an individual so-named before. Which leads me to believe 'Remy' is, in fact, your real name. If you were to choose an alias, perhaps something commonplace would be more suitable. John, perhaps?"

"I'll take dat under future advisement," Gambit responded.

"I strongly suggest you answer my inquiries with more thoughtfulness."

"Ve haf vays of makink you talk!" Gambit sassed in an exaggerated German accent.

This incensed Magneto. He strode forward, seemingly with the intention of wrapping his hands around Gambit's throat. But when his hands reached out, Gambit pushed him back, a sort of buzzy, staticky forcefield that crackled in the air as Magneto approached. Magneto paused, and his fury melted into something else. As if he were considering Gambit as more than a nuisance, maybe a very real threat.

"Why were you in my office?" Magneto asked, reining in his anger.

"Thought there'd be something worthwhile t'steal in there," Gambit responded.

"So, you admit to being a thief."

"Damn straight."

Magneto glowered. "Who was that man with you in my office?"

Gambit searched Magneto's face, looking for a clue that the question was some kind of trick. "You mean you don't know? He was standing there like he owned de place. I thought he was one of ... _you people_."

' _You people'…?_ his brain shook his head in shame. _Nothing good ever comes from saying those two words._

"He is not a member of this institution."

" _Institution_ is right," Remy said.

Randle McMurphy said: _Jesus,_ _I must be crazy to be in a loony bin like this!_

"And why should I be de one interrogated here? You, being an escaped terrorist, and them," Gambit nodded his head in Cyclops and Marvel Girl's direction. "Being mutant bounty hunters. Y'all think you're head and shoulders above me? Traitors to your own kind, is what you are."

" _You_ broke into our home," Magneto said. "We have the right to ask questions."

"The 'mutant hunters' is a diversion. It's a front," Cyclops said. "For our mission."

"Of all the stupid...," Wolverine said testily.

Gambit was in agreement with Wolverine, but didn't admit to it. _This place is lies on lies on lies. Fake mutant hunters, fake school, fake heroes, supervillains in disguise._ He had _hope,_ just one time he would be proven right, that people weren't as bad as they seemed. It seemed to Gambit that 'hope' was turning out to be a four-letter word.

"I'm afraid you're right, Logan," Marvel Girl said. "We only recently realized our mistake."

"What mistake was that?" Gambit asked. "Didn't bury the bodies deep enough? Where are all dem mutants you kidnapped? I saw the cells, they empty. Where'd you all put those kids? Are they dead? In some kinda camp?"

Marvel Girl shook her head: "No… they're…"

Magneto interrupted, seemingly more furious than before. To Gambit he shouted: "Your insinuations are abhorrent!" To Cyclops and Marvel Girl he said: "You do not have to answer this thief's questions!"

Wolverine nodded his head in Cyclops and Marvel Girl's direction: "Now wait a minute, Magnus. I want to hear what they have to say."

"They're at X-Factor headquarters," Cyclops answered. "We're training them to control and use their mutant abilities. Some of them have warrants out for their arrest. We thought if it appeared they had been apprehended by government operatives, namely us, then they could have their freedom, and a chance to start over. Maybe begin school next fall."

"If your intentions were so pure," the woman Gambit now knew as Storm spoke. "Then why the subterfuge? Why did you hide...from us? From _me_?" This question she posed to Marvel Girl. Her voice was pained and she appeared quite sad.

Cyclops and Marvel Girl looked at one another, a silent communication seemed to pass between them. Cyclops turned his visored gaze upon Magneto. "I think the answer to that is apparent."

_Boy, this is some real melodrama right here,_ Gambit thought. _Daytime Emmy award-winning drama. But if factions are divided, maybe that's a good distraction from little ol' me._

"May we return to the matter at hand?" Magneto interrupted and pointed at Gambit.

_Spoke too soon._

"Your acquaintance with Sabretooth leads me to believe you are affiliated in some way with the murderers who slaughtered the Morlocks," Magneto said.

Gambit said nothing.

"What is your answer?" Magneto demanded.

"I'm sorry, was dat a question?"

Magneto turned to Marvel Girl. "Remove the information from him," he ordered.

"We are not taking orders from you," Cyclops said, his stoicism pushed to the brink.

_You're not the boss of me_ , Gambit thought.

Marvel Girl shook her head. "I no longer have telepathy," she said. "Telekinesis only, but much more powerful than before."

"So, you are incapable. Perhaps Elisabeth would have the power to examine the thief's thoughts."

_Thief's thoughts thief's thoughts thief's thoughts,_ Gambit thought. _Say that ten times real fast._

The last person in the room, Elisabeth, heretofore known as Bets said: "I can't...hold on to a single thought in his head. Half of what he's thinking is in a regional dialect I don't understand. Some thoughts seem to be in...Pig Latin? Most seem to be pure nonsense."

_Ou'reyay utecay enwhay ou'reyay angryyay_ , Remy thought.

Elisabeth glared at him. "There's seemingly no focus, it's completely random."

"So, he is mentally deranged?" Magneto said, as if this was all the confirmation he needed.

"I think what she means t'say is that my stream of consciousness is less of a stream than a white water rapids," Gambit told his captors. "Lots of rocks, maybe a whirlpool. Definitely a waterfall."

"Very well," Magneto said, ignoring Gambit. "There are other ways to gain information regarding his plot. Rogue?"

Rogue moved forward, and Wolverine put a hand out to block her. "Rogue, you don't have to-," Wolverine began.

"No, Logan. Ah don't have to. Ah _want_ to." She strode forward towards where Gambit sat, pulling off a glove as she did so.

Gambit eyed her warily, looked at her bare hand, then her face. Her expression was quite angry. "Ah guess Ah shoulda known…" she said, as if she were disgusted with herself. "Why'd Ah let mahself think..."

"I'm sorry, Rogue," Gambit said, contritely. "I was honest in all I told you. I never once lied t'you."

"A lie of omission is still a lie!" she shouted at him.

"Oh, like how you failed to mention the very real global terrorist you've got headin' up dis whole operation?" Gambit answered back with the same amount of heat.

"Everyone deserves a second chance!" she yelled.

"Is that right!?" he yelled back. "Then let me de hell go! I didn't do anything to y'all! I'm trapped between a rock and a hard place here! I got little choice in de matter! Let me go and you'll never hear tell of me again!"

"Right, let's let an unrepentant criminal thief with a bomb in his chest go free!" she said sarcastically.

"Unrepentant criminal..? Oh, mon Dieu, de absolute sanctimony and hypocrisy…" Gambit began, muttering to himself.

He suddenly found his head snapping to the left as she struck the side of his face with an open palmed slap. Gambit was stunned into silence. There was only the burning sensation of the strike and the sound of Candra's voice in his head berating him: " _Stupid...idiotic...worthless_ …"

Rogue was silent, seemingly stunned as well. She looked at her bare hand, then back at Gambit. Tentatively, she reached out and touched the side of his burning face with her fingertips. He threw himself away from her touch, sliding off the stool to land on the ground. "You-don't you-put your hands-on me again!" he spat.

"Ah can't…" Rogue began slowly. "Ah can't absorb him. He's got...some kinda force field."

_Absorb me?_ Gambit thought with alarm. _What in the sam fucking hill does that mean?_ He began struggling against his bonds in earnest; he could just blow these shackles off, throw these people away from him. The star in his chest began to grow, suddenly too bright. He stopped struggling, now laying flat on his stomach, his forehead pressed into the cold steel floor. He struggled to breathe normally. Gambit wanted to escape, but not at the cost of killing his captors.

Marvel Girl seemed to sense his distress. "Calm down," she began.

"Never in de history...of someone saying 'calm down'...has anyone ever _calmed down_!" he snarled into the floor.

"You're right, I'm sorry. It will be okay. Just inhale," Marvel Girl said. "Exhale. You can get through this."

Cyclops and Wolverine moved towards where Marvel Girl knelt beside Gambit. "No, stay back," she told them. "If he releases his powers, my TK bubble may not be enough to contain it. Just give him space."

Magneto seemed to take this to heart, because he departed, the enormous sliding doors opening and closing to allow him to exit.

"No one is going to put their hands on you," Marvel Girl was saying. "Maybe we can start over. We'll take off the manacles-."

"Jean," Cyclops said. "I had a thought. What if he was sent here? With the intent that he'd...go off? Killing us?"

"What, an assassin?" Wolverine asked.

Gambit laughed hoarsely into the floor. "Isn't _that_ ironic! Don't cha think?"

"Maybe not as an assassin. But as a plant? A bomb?" Cyclops asked.

_This message will self-destruct in five seconds..._ Gambit thought.

"Could he be an unwitting pawn, sacrificed?" Cyclops suggested.

"He did say his name was 'Gambit,'" Wolverine conceded. They regarded one another, seeming to weigh the ominous implications of this.

Gambit rocked his forehead back and forth on the ground. "I just wanna go home," he muttered, finally being honest with himself and everyone else.

Magneto returned, much to Gambit's absolute dismay. Gambit watched the man from one eye where he lay face-down on the floor. Magneto was carrying something in his hands. It appeared to be yet another kind of restraint.

"Nope!" Gambit said, throwing himself into a seated position and scrambling backwards on his butt as far as his bonds would allow.

Marvel Girl attempted to waylay Magneto. "Wait, we are going to try to gain his-," she began.

"I am in charge of this school, as Xavier so wished," Magneto told her. "And I will decide—."

"You cannot think to bring that device in here," Storm said hotly. "Remove it at once!"

"I recognize your hesitation, Storm," Magneto replied. "Understandable, given your current condition. But this is not a weapon, as the one employed against you and Rogue. It does not neutralize a mutant's abilities. It is a tool. It will inhibit powers, not remove them."

"Not a weapon?" Cyclops asked in disbelief. "The inhibitor field you used to protect your island _wasn't_ a weapon? I seem to recall Colossus nearly dying because of your _tool._ "

"Drowning," Magneto said, "was not directly caused by the inhibitor field. It was an unfortunate circumstance that he encountered the field while underwater."

Gambit had no idea what was being discussed and wanted no part of it. These people bickered amongst themselves so much, it made Thief/Assassin negotiations seem downright civil. Gambit understood that Magneto intended to strap something to his chest to stop his powers from working, not the back-story. He was not too eager to find out what would happen if someone were to unplug his internal Lite-Brite.

"That thing's hardly bigger than a hockey puck," Wolverine said. "How'd you get your whole computer to fit in there?"

"It became much easier to reduce the mechanical footprint of the device once I had access to Shi'ar technology," Magneto replied, and the look of consternation that passed over each of the other mutants' faces was not missed by Gambit.

_No bueno_ , he thought. _No me gusta._

Magneto released the device he held and it hovered in midair borne by his magnetic ability, moving towards Gambit like some kind of arcade claw-game with him as the cheap stuffed prize. Gambit pushed back with his own powers. The inhibitor doo-hickey started to glow.

"Do you wish-to destroy yourself?" Magneto said, as they warred one another with invisible forces none of the others could feel or see.

"I did it once or twice already-and look- _totally_ fine!" Gambit panted.

"You believe—you can best me?" Magneto asked.

"No, and I-wouldn't want to. Your best-is just de- _worst!_ "

The other assembled mutants began to back away, seeming now to feel the charged particles in the air.

Rogue suddenly gasped. "Ah'm burned!" she cried, less hurt than surprised that such a thing could happen to her nigh-invulnerable skin.

Gambit immediately stopped resisting. The inhibitor wrapped itself around his shoulders, under his arms, to criss-cross across his chest and lock behind his shoulder blades. There was a sort of touchpad at the center of his chest. As he watched, the thing seemed to flash on, and it gave a sort of pneumatic hiss as it fully engaged, tightening around his torso.

"Hey!" Gambit cried.

"Magnus, I urge you to reconsider!" Storm pleaded.

"What if he needs his powers to live?" Marvel Girl shouted.

"Then I imagine he will die," Magneto answered.

The front panel made a small beep, then began a whirring sound like a computer processor. Gambit suddenly felt as if gravity was crushing him, that time was moving too slowly, that all his stamina was leached away, as if being drained from him by a vampire. Gambit slowly collapsed onto his side and the world faded into shades of gray.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Interrogation, part 2
> 
> We have ways - German pronunciation of "We have ways of making you talk", coupled with the image of World War II-era interrogation. A comedic play on the phrase "We have ways to make men talk." from the 1935 movie The Lives of a Bengal Lancer.
> 
> Air speed velocity of an unladen sparrow - Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail
> 
> I must be crazy to be in a loony bin - One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest (film)
> 
> This message will self destruct - Mission:Impossible
> 
> Pig Latin, Remy says: You're cute when you're angry.
> 
> The whole episode with Magneto's island/inhibitor field is relayed in Uncanny X-Men #150, I, Magneto. He's later put on trial in #200 for the crimes he commits in #150, which I referenced in an earlier chapter. Took me a bit to figure out where to get an inhibitor from when Genosha in this timeline has yet to happen, but it ended up better than falling back on the dumb-ole inhibitor collar trope, I think.


	15. Chapter 15

Magneto insisted he be left to interrogate Gambit on his own, something which Cyclops immediately opposed. Magneto reminded Cyclops that he was no longer a member of this household, no longer an X-Man, and he would get no say. Given that she had ousted Cyclops in a duel over leadership, it was surprising when Storm spoke up in Cyclops' defense.

"Our home is always open to our friends and former teammates," Storm said, her regal accent authoritative. "Warren is in our infirmary, even now struggling to survive. They are more than welcome to stay here, for as long as they wish, to see Warren through his traumatic injury. I hope they choose to stay, to reconnect with us. Our disagreements do not change the fact that we are friends, family."

"So yer giving Cyke a say?" Wolverine asked, not to question her judgement, but to press home the point that Magneto was not the sole decision maker.

"That is so," Storm said, and nodded at Cyclops. The expression Jean wore - or, not Phoenix, but Marvel Girl, Rogue supposed - was one of teary gratitude. She extended a hand in Ororo's direction. Ororo approached and instead of taking Jean's hand, drew her into an embrace.

"Ororo," Jean said, her chin resting on Ororo's shoulder as they wrapped their arms around one another. "I am so sorry. I've missed you so much. I wish-."

"I will not waste another moment on hurt or anger," Ororo responded, pulling away slightly to look into Jean's eyes. "I intend only to celebrate. The Goddess has returned you to us."

Rogue blinked as tears formed in her own eyes, she took a gloved finger and hastily wiped under her eye. When her vision cleared, it was to see the thief, Gambit, watching the two women with some interest. He might have been smiling, it was hard to tell. His mouth was permanently curved up at the corners. She scowled at him, hating him, the traitorous swamp rat.

Cyclops nodded to Storm, a slight indication of thanks. For Cyclops, this was an overwhelming display of emotion. While both Ororo and Scott were as even keel as anyone could get, their leadership styles were quite different. Cyclops' no-nonsense style demanded consensus and conformity, for a team to act as a concentrated unit. Military-esque, Rogue supposed. Ororo, while no less imperious in her decrees having been a former goddess, favored individualism and personal freedom and trusted her team to act accordingly. More of a leader of mercenaries to Cyclops' drill sergeant. She gained loyalty through compassion and empathy. Cyclops, by force of character and decisiveness. Rogue would be willing to follow either to the ends of the earth.

At the moment, however, Ororo was the X-Men's leader. Rogue was even more dedicated to Storm's guidance, especially after Ororo had trusted Rogue with her memories and mutant ability; she voluntarily offered herself to Rogue's touch, encouraging her to use her natural-born abilities, to enjoy them, maybe learn to begin to control them. Ororo's generosity had resulted in her later being shot by a power-neutralizing weapon, a blast that was intended for Rogue for what she had done. For attacking the Avenger, Ms. Marvel aka Carol Danvers, nearly killing her. Rogue realized then there would be no control, no pleasure taken from touching another person. Rogue was a menace to everyone around her, no matter how hard she tried.

Magneto was forced to concede, seeing as he was overruled, a fact that must have stuck in his craw. "If you wish to observe," he said in his deep baritone, "so be it."

"We shall begin again," Magneto turned to Gambit. "A simple question, one might think. What is your name?"

" _Poor ole Michael Finnegan, begin again_ ," Gambit sang back, then winced.

"What were you doing in my office?"

"Robbin' from de rich to give to de poor," he glibly answered. His grin dimmed somewhat as his jaw tightened.

"Who was the man accompanying you?" Magneto demanded. "The one I saw by your side in my office?"

"De bogeyman." Gambit grimaced, shook his head.

"What is the nature of your relationship to the murderers in the Morlock tunnels?"

"Terribly strained," Gambit said in mock sorrow. "We were on a _break!_ " Then air hissed through his teeth as if he were in pain.

"Did you murder the Morlocks?" Magneto asked coldly.

"I certainly did not!" Gambit shouted. "I am not a murderer! I wouldn't try t'kill anyone, especially not kids!"

Magneto considered this response, the first given without a hint of flippancy or sarcasm.

"Perhaps not directly responsible. Then, in what way did you assist in perpetuating their deaths?"

Gambit stared at him blankly at first, then his gaze turned inwards. He shook his head, as if having an argument with himself.

"No pithy response?" Magneto asked. "I will have to assume the worst. Was your intention of breaking into our home to facilitate their access to the school, to my students?"

"I already told you…" Gambit said slowly, darkly, "that I would never...harm...a...child."

Suddenly, Gambit said: "Okay, ow! You win! Y'hurt me. You can stop crushing my hand now! And that was my favorite finger you just broke, by de way. Now how am I gonna drive through Connecticut without the official state hand signal?"

"What is he-?" Cyclops asked, a hint of alarm in his voice.

"Enh, you think dis is the first time someone tried t'torture me?" Gambit announced. "Experience is de teacher of fools, and I'm no fool by now. So, à plus tard, Wet Blanket. I'm off to my happy place!"

Gambit then closed his eyes and his expression stilled.

"Magneto, what is the meaning of this?" Storm demanded. "We do not torture our adversaries!"

"But you would perhaps, consider stabbing one in their sleep?" Magneto rebutted. Storm's jaw hardened.

Cyclops marched over to the stool where Gambit was seated, approached him from behind but stood several feet away and out of the influence of the inhibitor field Gambit wore. With two bursts of light from his visor and with laser-precision, he blasted the manacles from Gambit's wrists. Gambit did not move, he remained in some kind of meditative state. His bare heel tapped on the rung between the stool's legs, as if he were keeping time to music.

"Are you a fool?" Magneto asked. "Freeing him? After what you witnessed in the Alley, you would allow him to reduce our home to ashes?"

"The inhibitor field is still operational," Cyclops told him. Looking down at Gambit's hands, he added: "You've crushed his fingers."

"I believed if I were to threaten his livelihood of pickpocketing, he might become more cooperative. Perhaps I should have instead _removed_ his hand to the wrist?"

Storm looked mad enough to chew nails and spit rivets. "I will retrieve the first aid kit," she said in a steely voice that conveyed her fury. "I trust you will not continue your particular line of questioning."

"So it comes to this?" Cyclops asked, looking at Wolverine and Rogue for affirmation. "Is this the kind of stewardship Xavier's school deserves?"

Rogue was chewing the inside of her lip, her stomach was in a knot.

"I will again remind you that Xavier chose me to lead the school," Magneto said. "And not _you_."

Cyclops' visor flashed. "As far as Xavier's decision is concerned, well, nobody's perfect," he said slowly and clearly.

"I have a responsibility to the New Mutants. I will do anything to protect them. You may disagree with my methods, but not my integrity or loyalty to them," Magneto told him.

"He's barely older than any of your students, Magneto," Marvel Girl said, gesturing to Gambit.

"None of my students have infiltrated the school with the intent of bringing a pack of murderers to our doorstep!"

"You're making assumptions," Cyclops said. "We need facts."

"Which I am trying to procure," Magneto said. "Telepathy is ineffective, Rogue is unable to pull the information from him. What do you suggest? A discussion over cold beers?"

Oh dear, Magneto was using sarcasm. He'd spent too long in the company of teenagers, it seemed.

Magneto continued: "Or do you somehow believe his being here at the same time the Morlocks were being massacred was some absurd irony?"

Gambit's eyes suddenly popped open and he declared: "It's NOT ironic! It's _coincidental!_ Alanis Morrisette has ruined the word for everyone!"

Rogue thought perhaps Magneto might be right and Gambit was, in fact, deranged. In that case, he should be pitied and not a prisoner.

"Like you have any room to criticize other people's use of the English language," Wolverine remarked.

Gambit paused for a moment, and then actually laughed merrily at this statement. This confirmed in Rogue's mind that he really was as crazy as an outhouse rat.

"I may play fast and loose with de pronunciation, but not de meaning," Gambit responded, grinning. "Hard enough for people to understand me."

Wolverine almost smiled back, but his expression was more confused than anything. Why was he joking around with a confirmed criminal and potential murderer?

Storm then returned, not with a medical kit, but Hank McCoy. He was carrying his medical bag. The poor man looked positively stressed. Rogue was thankful he'd been given a chance to shower and a change of clothes. He had enough to worry about with both Angel and Nightcrawler being so grievously injured. Rogue was a little annoyed that due to Magnus' actions, Hank was taken away from her friends' bedsides.

"Good evening," Hank said tiredly. "Or should I say 'good morning'?"

"Ah, zut," Gambit said to himself. "Hey you guys, I got to get to Mass, it's a day of holy obligation. Better let me go, it's my soul and all."

"Well, my Cajun compatriot, I'm afraid you'll have to repent your sins at a later date. Now, can you show me your injury?" Hank said.

Gambit tentatively extended his right hand in Hank's direction. Rogue gave him some credit that the appearance of a large, blue-furred mutant did not seem to phase him in the least.

"Hey," Gambit said abruptly to Hank, "you know Captain America, right? Can you get me his autograph?"

Hank took the thief's hand in his big clawed mitt, expression conveying he did not believe in Gambit's sincerity. "Let's put a pin in that, shall we? We'll have to perform some x-rays, but for now, I will splint your fingers for some support. Can you move any of them?"

Gambit wiggled his index and thumb. "Looks like Pointer and Thumbkin got away," Gambit remarked.

Hank regarded him from over his spectacles with some amusement. "Yes, they are very well this morning." Hank turned to his medical bag. "First an injection of local anesthetic, I think."

"Uh-unh," Gambit said, and attempted to retrieve his hand.

Hank's grip remained firm. "There's no need for alarm. It's just to help with the pain."

"No, no way." The color seemed to drain from Gambit's face.

Hank attempted to rummage in his bag one-handed while Gambit protested. Hank began: "I don't want to manipulate (no) your fingers without (nope, no) first numbing (nein, nyet, non)...Would you please stop? (get that thing away from me!) You're only making it worse!" Hank turned and pinned Gambit's arm under his armpit while Gambit struggled to pull away.

"Ah! Don't you stick me!" Gambit cried.

"There, it's already done!" Hank said triumphantly holding the empty syringe aloft. "Don't you feel-?"

But Gambit's eyes had rolled back in his head and he was falling like a ragdoll to the floor. Hank's grip on him was the only thing preventing him from striking his head on the ground. Rogue gasped.

"Did he just faint?" Cyclops asked.

"Is he faking it?" Wolverine asked.

"Maybe it was an allergic reaction?" Marvel Girl suggested.

Hank was lifting one of Gambit's eyelids. He lightly tapped the thief on the face with a flat palm. "No, apparently is he quite phobic."

"We found him in a room full of unrecognizable corpses," Wolverine said. "And a needle makes him pass out?"

"The nature of phobia is that it does not make rational sense. It's an overreaction of the fight or flight response," Hank said looking down at the now-silent Gambit. "Perhaps we can take advantage of the situation and bring him to the infirmary?"

"I think not," Magneto said, disgusted at the display of Gambit's mental weakness. "A holding cell, until he revives and we can further question him."

Hank looked at Cyclops and raised an eyebrow. Cyclops decided to choose the path of least resistance. "Do you think you can perform some basic first aid on him in a cell?" he asked Hank.

Hank sighed. "Very well," and he picked up the lanky thief to remove him from the Danger Room.

"In the meantime," Storm said. "We should all get some rest. We can approach this with _clearer_ thinking later."

Rogue agreed. She moved to follow the rest of her friends as they exited. She was stopped by Magneto, a hand on her upper arm. She shied away, not welcoming unexpected contact, but he held firm. He drew her back and she reluctantly turned to face him.

"This young man," Magneto began. "This is the boy who called Sunday last?"

Rogue swallowed. "Yup."

"Am I to understand you met with this person? Logan seems to be under the impression that you were...on a date."

Rogue nodded, feeling heat creep into her face. She did not meet Magneto's disapproving gaze.

"What did you tell him, about us... _exactly_?"

Rogue could feel her bottom lip trembling. She struggled to rein in her emotions. "Nothing...nothing specific. He'd asked who mah friends were, is all."

"And you informed on us?" Magneto asked. "To a stranger?"

She shook her head a little. "Ah mean, I just said...that Logan was mah friend, and who all else. Ah didn't even say the New Mutants' names, not yours either."

"No, likely he did not care about the names, only the number of people in the house. What he would be contending with," Magneto said and made Rogue feel stupid.

Magneto put his other hand under Rogue's chin, forcing her to look at him. "You will not likely forget your mistake," he told her, not unkindly. "You should know now, not to trust those outside of our circle. To trust only...your friends. _Me_." He shook his head in self-admonishment. "I partly blame myself. I knew, somehow, that there was something...off...about that phone call. I should have forbidden you to answer."

Rogue didn't have any response for that, feeling shamed and chastised like a child. "Ah'm sorry," she said quietly, her voice tight.

"You are forgiven. You are still so young. You don't have the benefit of experience...To have been molded by it. This will not happen again, will it."

Rogue shook her head, unwilling to vocally respond lest her emotions come pouring out. Magneto released her arm and strode from the room. When the door swished closed, Rogue gave in to what she was feeling. She marched over to the metal stool. With an angry scream, she kicked it and it tore from the ground to fly across the room with a clang. She was shaking in fury. How _dare_ he make her feel like a stupid child? Speak down to her for wanting one night of normalcy, to be treated like a woman and not a pariah? How dare he _patronize_ her?

_Forbid_ me _? You_ forbid _me!?_ she screamed inside her head.

_screw that guy! screw his patriarchal bullshit!_ For once, Carol agreed with her. Carol was on a tear in feminist solidarity and together they were on the same team, if only for a moment.

Rogue admitted to some responsibility, but it was not as if she'd given Remy the passcode to the back door. So, she would help, in some small way, to straighten this mess out. She'd go talk with him, as it seemed he liked to talk (and talk). Rogue would find out the truth, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Old Michael Finnegan - Silly children's song
> 
> Robbing from the rich - Robin Hood
> 
> We're on a break - Ross from Friends
> 
> Pointer and Thumbkin - children's song "where is thumbkin, here I am!"
> 
> Next time: You scratch my back...


	16. Chapter 16

Rogue had to pull her glove off with her teeth while juggling the small tray she held. She pressed her now bare palm on the scanner beside Cell 5. She held her breath a moment, half fearful that she would not be permitted entry. She took the glove from her mouth and held it in her bare hand. The door whisked open, leaving in its wake a transparent but impenetrable barrier; impassible if you were the prisoner, that is. Rogue looked into the cell, spotted Remy sitting cross-legged on the sleeping platform attached to the wall. She watched his eyes scan her, wondering what her motives for being there were.

"Ah got somethin' for you to eat and drink," she said and placed the tray beside him on the bed. "Hank said you could take these painkillers if you're getting to feeling too sore."

His arms were crossed over his chest, his right arm over his left. Hank had wrapped the last three fingers of his right hand in gauze and medical tape. His upper body was otherwise bare save for the inhibitor field he wore. Rogue was curious about this device, but chose not to express too keen of an interest in front of Storm. Remy's bottom half, clad in an old navy blue X-Men uniform, was a regrettable fashion choice on Cyclops' part. Rogue resolved to find Remy something that was less...form-fitted.

_his eyes are up there, rogue_ , Carol said, snickering.

Rogue's eyes immediately snapped up to Remy's. She could see why he'd not taken off his sunglasses during their walk. His eyes were black and red, though the fire in them had greatly diminished when Magnus had activated the inhibitor.

"Why didn't you say you were a mutant?" she asked him. "When we were out walking?"

"I thought all were equal, what does it matter if I'm human or mutant?" His tone was not particularly kind.

She thought to herself: _Why not reveal that you were a mutant too, like me? It would have made me all the more likely to trust you._

"Ah guess you just like messin' people around," she said.

"Yup. You got it," Remy said dismissively. "Thanks for the food. You can be on your way now."

"Are you ashamed of being a mutant?" she pressed.

He made a contemptuous sound. "No, I just don't choose to identify myself that way. Most of the mutants I've met are straight up trash."

"Maybe the problem isn't that they're mutants, but the company you choose to keep," she responded, trying to keep her tone even.

"I haven't been able to choose my own company for these last three years," he said bitterly.

Rogue hesitated, then sat gingerly on the sleeping platform, the tray of untouched food (sandwich, apple, crackers, water) between them. "So, those...people in the Alley. You knew them?" From what Wolverine and Cyclops had reported, there might have been a dozen non-Morlock bodies in the Alley. But really, from their gristly report, there wasn't much left of anyone.

"I have had de misfortune of making their acquaintances," he said.

"And how did you go about making acquaintances with murderers?"

"It might be that I wanted to find de biggest bears to poke at," he answered. "Just to see how mad I could make 'em. De answer is: pretty damn mad."

"Why? Why would you do that?" Rogue asked.

"Maybe I have masochistic tendencies."

"Or like a death wish?"

"Being close to death used to be de only thing that made me feel alive."

"Were they out tryin' t'kill you? In the tunnels?" she asked.

"I gave 'em a pretty good chase, but then reached de end of my rope. Then my death wish got granted and I flew all t'pieces. Took 'em all out with me. Nobody say I never left de world a better place." His tone was still bitter.

Rogue exhaled. This wasn't the teasing, charming, laughing person she'd met in the library. Maybe that was all an act. But if it was an act, why make up a story about reading children's literature, or say any of the truly hokey, blue humored, or cute things he'd said? It seemed a very odd persona to assume.

Testing him she asked: "Ah could bring you something to read, if you like? Ah think some of the students are reading _The Grapes of Wrath_."

"Ugh. I have a hard time getting through Steinbeck. I'd rather one of your romance novels. Make sure there's lots of smut in it."

Rogue looked down at her hands, gave a small sound of mirth. "You look about like you could be on the cover." Her cheeks burned. _keep your eyes above the belt, rogue dear._

"I could use a different set of pajama bottoms, that's for sure," he said. "Probably a haircut, too. This whole Fabio look is doing me no favors." He picked up the apple and bit into it. Sighed. "Hope you didn't get this here apple from no serpent. Make me give into temptation and all."

"And what am Ah supposed to be tempting you with?"

"Like some kind of peace offering to get me to cooperate, maybe? Gain my trust? Did Wet Blanket send you in here?"

"No, subtlety is not his strong suit," Rogue told him. "And he'd probably be mad as a wet _hen_ if he found out Ah was in here. Which he will inevitably, once he checks the security logs."

"You think it wise to disobey de Master of Magnetism? Won't he get all bent out of shape? Launch a nuke at you?"

Rogue shook her head. "He's turned over a new leaf, Ah swear. Xavier turning over the school to him gave him a new purpose. A better one."

Remy was halfway through the apple in a matter of a few large bites. "Well, I guess I won't begrudge him that. I used to think maybe if people were given half a chance to do right, they'd do it. But I've lately been proven very, very wrong. Hope for your sakes, it works out better."

"Ah would've taken you right in through the door that night. You didn't have to break in," she said. "Why did you do it?"

"I wanted to know it was all on de up and up. See through my own eyes, not just what you'd be willing to show me. I already stepped in it big time before, not knowing what I was getting myself into," he held out his arms as if he were on display. "And now look at me, the very picture of success! Clearly, I am a master of decision-making."

"But why? Why did you come here in the first place?"

He committed to finishing the apple. Placed the core onto the tray and gathered the crackers in his good hand. "I was lookin' for answers. I thought Xavier might have them."

"Answers to what?"

"All that stuff you said, about how mutants need more help, not less? Well, that rings true."

"You need help, sugah?"

"What'd you mean about when you said you couldn't 'absorb' me?" he asked, in an effort to change the subject.

Rogue still held her glove. She was twisting it between her two hands. "It means, that when Ah touch someone, skin to skin, Ah absorb their thoughts, memories...and if they're a mutant or superhuman, their powers. And Ah can't control it. So Ah keep covered up and make sure no one gets too close."

He regarded her for a moment, momentarily stopping his chewing. Remy swallowed. "Since you can't control your powers, why couldn't Xavier just...block 'em out?"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah don't know. It's complicated. Ah don't have...Ah mean, not all my DNA is...from this world."

His expression was perplexed. "Are you 'bout to tell me you're an alien?"

Rogue smiled and gave a helpless shrug. "No, like Ah was born here on this planet. Ah just happened to pick up a few bits and pieces extra."

"Dieu," Remy said finally. He ate some more crackers. "So Xavier can't just cauterize mutant abilities."

"Xavier can't do much right now anyhow, seein' as he's in outer space."

"Is he visiting one of your cousins?"

" _No-wuh_ ," Rogue said and swiped at his knee with her glove. "He's convalescing."

"Right, heard he took a beating," Remy said. "So since you can't control your powers, does that mean you've not been touched? Ever?"

"Not without consequences. And the longer the touch, the worse off the person getting touched is. Like comatose, or worse...dead."

His expression was sympathetic. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, the whole touchy-feely thing is overrated. If no one can touch you, then they can't hurt you. Mostly, touchin' and being touched is just a temporary way of making you feel less alone."

"That doesn't make me feel any better at all."

"I'm just sayin' maybe don't feel so bad about it. It's not all dat great."

"Let me tell you, Remy. One of ours had a baby recently. And Ah'd have given my right arm t'hold him. But Ah couldn't, wouldn't even think of it. What if there's someone you were desperate to hold, touch? Like what if you fell in love?"

"What if you did? And then if you couldn't be with the person you love, it just makes you wish you'd never touched 'em in de first place."

"Remy, that's incredibly depressing."

"Hey, remember how much older and wiser I am than you? You want me to prove it? Here," he extended his left hand to her. "Go 'head, touch me. I promise you'll feel _nothing_."

She eyed his outstretched hand warily.

"You said you can't absorb me, and b'sides this inhibitor doo-hickey is supposed to generate a field, right?"

Rogue inhaled nervously. She moved the tray of food to Remy's opposite side. Then she placed her gloved hand under his left. Held her bare hand over his open palm. Rogue released her breath, let her index and middle fingers lightly brush the bowl of his palm. She glanced up to meet his eyes.

"Absorb anything?"

"No," she said softly.

"So either the doo-hickey is fully functional, you really can't absorb me, or I got nothin' in my head to absorb."

Rogue let her hand slide into his warm, dry one, like a handshake. Withdrew, then traced her fingertip over the lines on his palm and wrist. There was a pale white line scored diagonally across his palm. She turned his hand over, brushed her fingers over the sparse hairs there.

"Feelin' anything?" he asked.

"Uhm…" she murmured hesitantly, touching each of his fingers in turn. "Ah think you might be older, but not the wiser."

"Not overrated then?"

"Sold yourself short, sugah."

"Well, if you like my hand so much, imagine how interesting de rest of me is."

"For shame," she said, and lightly slapped the back of his hand.

Remy drew his hand away and immediately she missed its warmth. He reached for the sandwich she'd made him, stuffed a quarter of it into his mouth. "Why is food made by other people taste so much better than food y'make yourself?" he asked, his mouth half-full.

"Maybe because it's made with _love_ ," she said in a whispery voice and batted her eyelashes.

Remy inspected the contents of the sandwich. "Think dis is salami. Won't you get in trouble for fraternizing with de enemy? They won't put you in front of de firing squad?"

"No."

"Kick you out?"

"No, Remy. This is mah family."

"Don't see what difference that makes. Everyone seemed pretty tense back there."

"It's been a difficult few months."

"Maybe having Magneto in charge isn't helping any."

"Ah promise you, he's changed."

"So, no longer the self-important self-elected leader of all mutant-kind with delusions of grandeur?"

"Some of that is just his personality. But it's not his personality flaws that matter, it's his actions. He's different now. People can change, Ah have to believe that."

"Struggling to believe it, myself," he sighed. "But if it's as you say, I will try to stop myself from antagonizing Farmer Bean any further."

"Farmer Bean?"

" _Boggis and Bunce and Bean. One fat, one short, one lean. Those horrible crooks, so different in looks, were nonetheless equally mean._ "

"What's that from?"

" _The Fantastic Mr. Fox_. It was a pivotal influence during my early childhood development."

She smiled at him. He ate the last cracker. "You still hungry?"

"I am a bottomless pit, if you ask my Tante." He picked up the glass of water and drained it.

"Do you feel any better?"

"My hand still hurts. But I don't need any x-rays or what have you. And certainly no more pokey things."

"Needles?"

He shuddered: "Don't even say it...I get to havin' a picture in my head-. No, don't even think it. Now, if I get my powers turned back on for a second, my fingers, they'd fix themselves."

"Ah could maybe help," she said. "If you promise to behave yourself...But other than your fingers, you want to tell me what all else you needed help with?"

"Ain?" he said distractedly.

"What. Did. You. Need. Help. With...Sugah," Rogue said slowly.

He fared her with a charming smile, eyes full of devilry. "So I have dis place on my back I can't reach. Do you think you can scratch it for me?" He turned away from her, presented his back.

_cute dimples..._

_Shh-shut up!_ Rogue let out a frustrated breath. "Ugh! Okay, fine. Where at?"

He tried to point with his right hand index finger. "Behind where dis thing locks," he told her.

Rogue slowly reached out and scratched between his shoulder blades. "Here?"

"Little lower. Okay, dat's better!" he shivered.

"Can Ah guess why?" Rogue said, lightly scratching her bare fingers on his bare back. "Why you need our help? Is it 'cause you need help with your powers?"

He tucked his chin down to his chest. "Okay, now go up."

She obliged. "Ah'm sorry Ah hit you earlier."

"What? That was just a little tap. No big deal," he muttered into his chest. "Oh, wait, you meant when you gave me a slap in de torture chamber."

"Ah could see Ah upset you. Ah was just sooo angry," Rogue said. "But that's no excuse. You looked like you were going to be sick. And Jean could see you were struggling."

"I'm sorry I used you, t'find out more about de folks in de school," he told her.

"Were you there at the library...waiting for me to come 'round?"

"No, just a bizarre coincidence. _Not_ ironic. But maybe not so coincidental, there's not too many folks in dis town. When you gave me your number, I later saw it was de same as de school's. I thought I might not call you back...de real reason I didn't call right away. Then I ran into Pete, and he seemed a nice guy. Helped me. So I thought, maybe it's fine after all. I could just slip in, see if I could find what I was looking for, then go and no one'd be de wiser."

He wasn't directing her fingers anymore, but she let herself linger on his upper back and shoulder. Touch the very firm muscles under soft skin, then the brush of his long hair against the backs of her fingers. Remy didn't complain.

"Did you find what you were lookin' for?" she asked.

"I thought I did," he shook his head. "But maybe not. Maybe I'll just make off with dis doo-hickey." He tapped the inhibitor. "Live my life not being able to scratch my own back."

"You don't want to do that, sugah."

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "You mean to tell me you're not tempted? You could touch someone then, anyone you want."

"Maybe as a stop gap," she answered slowly. "Ah mean, there's other reasons...Ah'm a bit shy to touch anyone again. But it's not a permanent solution. Ah'm still a mutant, it's part of me. It's how _Ah identify_. And like it or not, it's part of who you are too."

"Person first, mutant last," he told her, looking away.

"Y'can't be willfully blind to differences, Remy. It doesn't serve anyone any good. Because you're _not_ the same as everyone else, you're different. Let's all value one another for our differences, and not our samenesses."

Remy seemed to think this over. "You're a smart cookie," he finally said.

She smiled, and let her fingers pull through a tangle in his hair. "Ah'm older than my eighteen years. Ah have the benefit of other people's experiences in mah head. People smarter than me, more compassionate than me, more brave than me."

_aw, you're making me blush. but i'm not_ that _much older than you!_

Rogue shook her head. "Now they're a part of me, help make up who Ah am. Give me a new perspective that Ah hadn't seen before."

Remy turned to face her again. "I don't really want to give up my powers. The world feels too heavy on me without them. Slow. Dull. Plus, I love making things go boom. But if it's de only way, I don't know what else t'do. There's just too much. It doesn't ever seem t'stop. Maybe I should go replace de nuclear plant at Indian Point? I'm like, what did Al Gore call it in _Earth in the Balance_...clean, renewable energy? No fossil fuels for me. I run on sandwiches."

She laughed. "Ah think you might be a smart cookie, too," she told him.

"Only as smart as your average parrot. I'm good at mimicry. As my daddy always told me, especially when he was pissed wit' something I'd done, 'monkey see, monkey do.'"

"See, it's not so hard to be honest, Remy," Rogue admonished him. "You're perfectly capable of giving up information."

"Enh, got to be everyone else making all my choices for me for so long, I started to get pretty sick of it. So now I won't be forced, even if it's in my own best-interest. Got a mental block about it."

She gave a small laugh, reached out and gingerly took his broken hand. "Maybe Ah could siphon some of it off," she said. She looked at the control panel on the inhibitor field on his chest. "Maybe if we timed it right, Ah could try to absorb your powers."

"Don't know if dat's a good idea. Seems like if I don't know how t'control 'em, what chance do you have?"

"Sometimes Ah have a better shot at controlling another mutant's ability than they do. You know, a fresh look at an old problem? Or...well, if you look at Cyke...he's not able to control his optic blasts either. Because of an old injury. Whereas Ah can, since Ah didn't get conked on the head as a kid."

Remy drew a breath. "I dunno, sounds dangerous. I don't want you t'get hurt. And even though those killers were like to kill me, I didn't really intend for them to all get done like they did. I don't want to kill anybody."

"You said yourself, if you'd get a moment or two with your powers, you'd be able to fix up your hand. Do you think you could manage a moment?"

"Awright," he said slowly.

"Now, don't get any ideas about running off," she told him firmly. "You won't be able t'get through that door without gettin' yourself zapped. It's keyed to your power signature."

"No running, no zappy. Got it."

"Maybe you should go to your happy place for a bit?" she suggested. "Ah'll unlock the doo-hickey. Ah hope Ah've got clearance anyway. If not, Ah'll go see if Ah can't get it changed in security."

He nodded, closed his eyes.

"Here goes," Rogue said, and pressed her thumb to the device. It flashed a glowing line that scanned her thumbprint. A small beep and then the prompt: Set/Disarm.

Rogue selected 'disarm.' There was a brief pause, then a click and a hiss as the inhibitor field deactivated.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the feeling of her right hand over his heart, his broken right hand in her left, and the feeling of being connected to someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: So long, and no thanks for all the fish.
> 
> Random References:
> 
> Fantastic Mr. Fox - Roald Dahl


	17. Chapter 17

Rogue could feel the inklings of something happening. It began as a soft tingle, then progressed to static-like shocks. Remy leaned forward abruptly and let out a guttural moan, something that triggered in Rogue's mind an impression of something almost sexual. She sucked in a quick breath, not so much feeling the usual pull of her powers on another mutant, rather a sensation of being caught in a current with power flowing both in and out of her at an ever increasing rate. She attempted to pull herself away, but was trapped in the flow as if electrified. Her hand stuck on his chest, over his heart, her other hand, still cradling his right. She felt Remy attempt to jerk away as well, but was unable to break their contact. Then, along with the surge of energy, she started hearing a stream of random thoughts, a trickle that soon became a torrent.

Remy's left hand, the undamaged one, moved to the inhibitor field at his chest. He clawed at it, attempting to turn it back on. He was fumbling, attempting to first manually cause it to click back into place. Then he blindly began pressing the touchscreen. He'd managed to touch the Set key. From where Rogue's fingers touched his chest, she was able to reach with her thumb and turn the device on. The restraint activated and tightened and Remy once more collapsed, falling from the cot and onto the floor. Rogue suddenly found herself free, but at the same time, now in partial ownership of Remy's powers. She struggled to breathe, she was panting anyway, but it was reflexive. It seemed like she no longer needed oxygen. Her body was glowing bright white, slightly pink at the edges. Remy's thoughts urged her to flee, predicting dire consequences of scorched wreckage and corpses. She stumbled to the door, but was thrown back with a sharp zap. She tumbled backwards, and a burst of explosive kinetic energy leapt from her chest, crashing against the wall before her. The transparent barrier prevented her from leaving now that she had adopted Remy's power signature.

Rogue flew at the wall, smashed it with a fist. The wall exploded outward into the hall. Rogue tumbled through the hole she'd made, falling to her hands and knees in the wreckage. Power was pouring from her mouth, her eyes, her nose, looking like so much golden molten rock. Her extremities seemed to be melding into the surroundings, fingers melting into the floor even as she watched, like superhot glass. She struggled to hold herself together.

_Get out get out get out,_ Remy's thoughts urged. _Get out or you'll kill them all._

Rogue staggered to the end of the hall, launched herself upwards, leaving the ground with a force that buckled the steel plates beneath her. She crashed up through the basement level, then ground floor, then first, then second, smashing through the roof and up into the sky. She could hear residual explosions behind her as she arced into the mid-afternoon sky. She soared towards the lake, finding that her rate of acceleration was only making things worse, leaving a comet's trail of _herself_ in the sky. Now power was flowing from every pore of her body. She forced herself to stop, and it seemed as if the force of her abrupt halt came back to punch her in the chest. There was a loud clap, and a blinding burst of illumination. A halo of bright white light exploded from her core. As it passed through the air, it left destruction in its wake. Rogue was falling from the sky. She hit the surface of the lake face-down as if hitting concrete, and there was another explosion that sent the lake water rushing several feet over it's banks. Then Rogue found she was sinking.

Underwater, her hearing was muffled, she could only hear the hiss of bubbles as the water boiled where it touched her skin. Water invaded her mouth, nose and throat. Stunned, she slowly sank into the lake. Her vision was clouded by the turbulent water. She opened her mouth and a bubble of sound escaped to float upward.

_Pull yourself together!_ Remy's thoughts shouted at her. _Who are you? Say your name! Say it!_

She wasn't entirely sure what her name was. _I'm... I'm Carol. I'm Logan. I'm Ororo. I'm Remy. I'm Rogue. I'm...Anna?_

Something clicked in her mind and her thoughts began to coalesce. She kicked feebly. Something bumped into her, floating up from the depths of the lake. Rogue kicked towards the surface. Another something bumped her, then another. She was drawing herself forward now with her arms, kicking strong with her legs. Rogue surfaced with a gasp, her hair plastered to her skull. All around her things were bobbing to the surface of the lake. She could feel them butting up against her. She saw now that the strange objects were fish. Dead fish, rising to the lake's surface, mostly in pieces. Rogue gagged, choked up lakewater, then started paddling towards the lake edge, swimming through the carnage. Her knees hit the rocky lake bottom first, then she crawled from the water to lay face-down on the grass near the bank.

She made a shuddering sound of horror and she sat up, trying to remove the feeling of fish guts from her skin and hair. She realized she was naked.

_Nude_ , Remy insisted.

"Rogue!" someone shouted.

She looked up, then up again, to see Storm flying towards her. She was wearing a purple camisole and pajama bottoms, her hair wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Rogue wondered if she'd accidentally blown through Storm's loft. Rogue wondered too if she might have hurt anyone in her escape. She put her hands over her eyes. Wolverine was suddenly there too, having crested a small hill to slide down the embankment to where Rogue crouched, her arms wrapped around herself to cover her nakedness.

"No, stay away!" she said, fearful they might come in contact with her.

Wolverine came to a sudden halt. He pulled off his checkered shirt, tossed it to her. Storm was by her side.

"Allow me to help," she said.

"N-no, 'Ro," Rogue said. "Don't, ya can't touch me!"

"I will only hold the shirt open for you," Storm said in her calm voice. "So you may slide your arms into the sleeves. Here, here it is. Just turn. I promise I will not make contact."

Rogue obeyed, shaking. Others were arriving now. She hurriedly clenched Logan's shirt closed. Her top was covered, but most of her lower body was exposed. She tried to tug the shirttail over her bottom. When she looked up again at the crest of the small incline, it was to see Magneto. He was flanked by several other students gifted with the ability of flight. Rogue put her hands over her face again, humiliated.

"It is all right," Ororo told her reassuringly. "Can you stand?"

"Maybe all right for you, you're practically a nudist," Rogue moaned.

Ororo laughed softly. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, dear one." To the gathering crowd she commanded: "All of you, please return to the school."

"Ororo…" Logan began.

"Please, Logan, can you urge the others to give Rogue some space."

He nodded, and strode back up the hill. "Okay, show's over," he said. The New Mutants reluctantly departed as Logan shepherded them away.

"What has happened?" Magneto demanded, striding forward despite Ororo's request. "Rogue, what have you done?"

"Rogue is safe," Ororo told him, although that didn't answer any of his questions. "She is unharmed, thank the Goddess. She needs a moment to herself, I believe. To collect her thoughts."

Rogue felt overwhelming gratitude for this gracious, kindhearted woman. Tears leaked from her eyes. Shakily, she climbed to her feet. "Ah know why Remy's here," she told them. "He needs our help. He can't...he can't control it. His powers." Rogue looked across the steaming lake, the dead fish and animals, scorched earth, the husks of burned trees now stripped of their colorful foliage.

A vision of a little blond boy wearing a red scarf appeared in her mind. The Little Prince walked on a tiny desolate planet in the vast emptiness of space, sad and alone save for a single selfish rose. The little boy went from one small volcano to the next, cleaning them, picking weeds, searching for a way to fly to the next planet. Though it seemed each world he visited, with its selfish inhabitants, was just as disappointing as the last.

"We have to help him," Rogue said. "It's that or we die. We'll all die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Paging Doctor Kitty... Doctor Kitty to Cell 5.


	18. Chapter 18

Kitty sat at Kurt’s bedside, his hand in hers. That they’d been close friends for so long, she really saw no strangeness in his limbs, his tail, his pointy ears and blue fur. She saw only someone she dearly cared for, connected to medical equipment, breathing through a tube. Kurt was unconscious, comatose, actually. Doctor McCoy said it was perhaps for the best, so that Kurt could focus on healing his body. He’d been attacked by a Nimrod sentinel, temporarily lost his powers, and was beaten by an anti-mutant mob. All this but a few weeks ago. 

Then Callisto, the Morlocks’ former leader, showed up at the school. She alerted them to the presence of killers chasing them from their home, collapsing tunnels. Kurt had insisted he go despite his injuries. Storm, perhaps feeling guilt and shame for not taking better care of her Morlock charges, or feeling fear due to her claustrophobia, refused to go. She felt her overemotional response would be a detriment to their mission. Rogue and Elisabeth stayed behind to guard the school. As Shadowcat, Wolverine, Colossus and Nightcrawler made their way through the tunnels towards the Alley, they were caught up in a blast that sent them all flying. Nightcrawler was struck by falling debris. He’d not woken up since. 

She gently rubbed the back of his forearm, then briefly held the back of his hand to her cheek before settling it onto his narrow chest. Kitty stood and peeked behind a privacy curtain. Warren was laying face-down on his bed, head turned away to face the wall. She suspected he was awake. It was hard not to see the horrible damage done to his back. X-Factor, as the X-Men now knew them to be, had found out about the massacre from their youngest charges, Artie and Leech, also Morlocks. The two inseparable boys had conveyed that the Morlocks were under attack. X-Factor was making their way to the Alley when the explosion had collapsed a wall onto Warren as he flew ahead of his team. Beast and Marvel Girl were unable to lift the wall fragment without collapsing the rest of the tunnel on all their heads. Cyclops was forced to use his optic beams to free Angel...from his wing, already damaged beyond repair. Iceman had attempted to numb his friend’s pain, but the external agony was not as severe as the internal misery Angel endured. Kitty couldn’t imagine the guilt and despair the four of them must be experiencing, or the trauma Warren was now living through.

“I’ve put a glass of water on your table,” Kitty whispered to him.

“Go. Away,” Warren responded. Kitty stepped back, closed the privacy curtain.

Kitty was about to resume her seat beside Kurt when she heard an explosion. Several explosions. She missed the chair and fell onto the floor. Tremors shook the building’s foundation. Kitty scrambled to her feet. 

_ An accident! Rogue has been injured! _ she heard Elisabeth’s voice in her mind, frantic.  _ East bank of the lake! Use every precaution when approaching! _

Kitty gasped, ran for the metal medical kit attached to the wall. She uncoupled it and took it by its handle. It weighed a ton and dropped heavily to her side. Kitty didn’t know what kind of medical attention Rogue could possibly need, considering she was nearly invulnerable, but she took the kit just in case. She ran through the infirmary wall and into the hallway. At first she thought to dash to the stairwell and climb two flights of steps to the first floor. But after a moment of indecision, decided to investigate the source of the explosion. With her intangibility, she would be invulnerable to any residual blasts. Kitty ran down the hall towards the holding cells, the kit banging against her hip. 

She saw a huge hole in the ceiling at the conjunction between the main hall and that leading to the holding cells. She stepped carefully through the wreckage. Now under the hole, she could see it went clear through every storey to the roof. Kitty could see daylight through the hole. One of the New Mutants was peering down at her. 

“Is everyone okay?” she shouted up. She was given a thumbs-up. Everyone okay then, she supposed. Just then, she heard a scream. It was a male voice. Kitty whipped around to look down the corridor where the cell block was. She could see Cell 5 was open, and their prisoner ( _ they had a prisoner? _ ) was pressed against the invisible barrier preventing his escape. Kitty wondered why on earth he’d be doing such a thing when it was clear the cell wall had been blown open. He was crying out in pain as he was zapped. Kitty started towards him when he stopped screaming to collapse onto the floor. He suddenly disappeared from view as if pulled by an invisible string back into the cell.

Kitty came to a staggering stop, confused. “Hey!” she called down the hall. “Hey, are you okay?”

_ Of course he’s not okay _ , she thought. But she couldn’t make sense of what she’d seen. Then a figure strode from the open space where the cell wall used to be. He was a giant of a man, broad in the shoulders, and his pale face, with its blood-red eyes, was positively cadaverous. Kitty stared at the man, open mouthed. 

“H-hey!” she said again. “Stop!” 

The man regarded her for a moment, offering no response. Instead he emerged from the cell, dragging their prisoner behind him by the restraint strapped across his back. The prisoner, Gambit, Kitty thought he’d called himself, seemed to be partially conscious. He was struggling weakly in the man’s grip, his bare feet squeaking on the floor. The pale man turned toward Kitty, raised a hand in her direction. A moment of consternation passed over his hideous features and he regarded his hand for a moment. He then looked down at Gambit. 

“Ah, an inhibitor field,” he said to himself. “How inconvenient.”

Kitty dashed a few feet forward towards the strange man, gripping the medical kit by its handle in both hands. She swung it, and the weight of the thing turned her in a circle once, twice, and a third time before she released it like a shot put. The kit sailed down the length of the hall and connected with the side of the pale man’s head. He staggered and the kit struck his shoulder to fall to the floor with a crash. The kit’s contents exploded everywhere. Kitty regarded the man with horror. A line of blood, first a trickle and then in a gush, of what looked almost like motor oil, poured from a gash in the pale man’s forehead. He touched it, looked at the blood on his fingertips as if he couldn’t believe such a thing had happened. The man looked up at Kitty, rage written all over his horrible face. He dropped Gambit unceremoniously onto the ground and began striding in Kitty’s direction. She backed up hastily. As soon as the man was free of the inhibitor field’s influence he once again raised his hand and a burst of yellow orange light blasted through her intangible form. Unfortunately, something about the energy burst set her very molecules on fire. She shrieked. 

“Oi!” shouted a voice from the opposite end of the hall. Kitty spied Elisabeth Braddock at the far end, shouting in a very un-Betsy-like way. Her pale round face was framed by her power signature, a bright pink butterfly-like shape that emanated from her eyes. As cute and sweet as Betsy appeared, she was a formidable telepath equipped with any number of powerful psy-weapons. She was pulling one from the air now, a bright pink beam that for a moment appeared as a sword in her hand. She sent it hurling towards the pale man. He turned and staggered as he was struck, falling to one knee. Kitty dashed forward, phasing through the man to approach Gambit where he lay. She knew her abilities would fade as she neared him and that she would become tangible once again. Betsy was running down the hall towards her, another psy-bolt forming in her hand. She leapt over Kitty and Gambit’s prone form, bringing her bolt down into the back of the pale man’s head. 

Kitty tugged at the restraint on Gambit’s chest. She couldn’t just leave him here helpless. If Kitty had her powers, she could have just phased through the mechanics and short-circuited them. Seeing she was unable to pull the restraint free, she attempted to disarm it. 

The reader said: Access Denied. Permissions Setting: Operator Does Not Meet Age Requirements.

“Aagggh!” she screamed at it, punching at the device. Gambit let out a little “oof.” 

Casting about, Kitty searched for a solution. She grabbed the medical kit, closed it, and lifted it over her head. 

Gambit was blinking blearily at her. His eyes widened and he shook his head.

Kitty brought the corner of the kit down onto the inhibitor field’s screen. It cracked. The second blow smashed it. She raised the kit a third time, only to find it knocked from her hand. She looked up to see the pale man standing over her. Kitty shrieked as he made a grab for her. His hand phased right through her. 

Light suddenly surged through Gambit and he was on his feet in a heartbeat. He launched himself at the pale man, throwing his body weight into the man’s chest. The pair fell back against the far wall. Kitty spied Betsy struggling from the ground where she had been thrown. Gambit’s expression was one of absolute fury. He was repeatedly punching the pale man in the face, which unfortunately seemed to have little effect. Every injury inflicted quickly repaired itself. Now Kitty knew why the man was so surprised to find himself bleeding. It seemed he was invulnerable to physical assaults.    
  
“--Hurt---a---kid, I’ll... _ end _ you!” Gambit was snarling, even as the man gripped his throat, pushing his glowing form away. 

The horrible man spoke: “Perhaps I should have instead offered you the lives of children in exchange for your services? How many would it have taken? Twenty? A dozen? ... _ One _ ?”

Gambit screamed incoherently at the man, glowing impossibly bright now. 

White and pink light was pouring up the pale man’s arm from where he made contact with Gambit’s skin. He seemed to recognize this, because all at once, his entire form flowed forward like a black tidal wave, engulfing Gambit’s head, neck and shoulders. Kitty watched in horror as the young man struggled, being smothered before her very eyes. The black wave was quickly engulfing Gambit. Kitty saw only his right arm, with its bandaged fingers, free and flailing as Gambit struggled to pull free, and even that was quickly disappearing. Kitty jumped for his hand, grasped it, willed him into intangibility. Betsy too was leaping into the fray, a psybolt held like a dagger as she wrapped her legs around the amalgamous form. She aimed where she thought the pale man’s head to be and stabbed downward. In that instant, it seemed that Gambit disappeared entirely. The whole mass shuddered. Both young women tumbled away as bright ribbons of white and pink began to swirl though the black. They both shielded their eyes from the blinding light, falling back and away from whatever was happening before them. 

The light suddenly went out. The entire hall was plunged into darkness. At the end of the corridor, one of the ceiling lights flickered sporadically. Betsy and Kitty reached for one another in the darkness. As their eyes adjusted, they could still spy a faint glow in the hallway before them. They slowly approached to see Gambit, sitting in the hall. He was repeating something to himself over and over again. 

_ A body at rest stays at rest...A body at rest stays at rest... _

“Oh, my gosh,” Kitty said and hid her eyes. He was nak---er,  _ nude _ again. 

Elisabeth approached him, peering down into his face. Gambit regarded her with his dark black and red eyes. “Pretty good, Posh,” he told her. “But can you come out with another hit single? Gettin’ pretty sick of hearing  _ Wannabe  _ playing every damn place I go.”

Betsy stared at him. “What…?” she shook her head impatiently. “Who  _ was  _ that horrible man?”

Gambit considered her for a moment, as if trying to decide if he wanted to answer. Finally he said: His name is Essex. A doctor Essex. But that’s not  _ what  _ he is.”

“What is he then?” Kitty asked quietly.

Gambit replied: “Something Sinister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: threesomes, probing, and the Big O.


	19. Chapter 19

Remy was subjected to a battery of tests in the infirmary, which he agreed to under the condition that there be no pointy objects involved. He found himself subjected to an uncomfortably personal physical examination (Doctor McCoy advised a biopsy on a freckle on Remy's posterior), then he was scanned, x-rayed, and stuffed into an MRI machine. Doctor McCoy pronounced him in fighting form. In spite of the medical exam, Remy actually did feel pretty good. The glowy-explody problem seemed to be miraculously contained. The exam was a new experience for Remy, and one he was not willing to endure again. The worst was yet to come however, when he found himself the salami/love in a Jean Grey and Elisabeth Braddock sandwich. Normally, he'd be happy to have a pair of beautiful ladies doubling up on him, but the three-way that they had in mind involved performing a mental probe on him. He was not in love with the idea of that kind of probing.

Apparently, Betsy was bringing Jean along with, as the redhead was now telepathy-free. Remy wondered how that had happened. Whatever Xavier did to her, did it have a permanent result? Also, he had a weird feeling that Elisabeth had a tinge of ruthlessness about her that Jean would temper.

"You'll need to lower your defenses. Try to focus," Betsy told him.

"Hold a vision of something in your mind," Jean said. "A focal point to concentrate on. It should allow Betsy to enter your...white water rapids."

Remy scowled at them. "Why are we doing this again?"

Jean said: "We want to ensure you've not been...compromised."

Betsy added: "You don't want that creature running amok in your head."

 _SIS-ters! All Hallow's Eve has become a night of frolic! Where children wear costumes and run amok!_ Remy thought. _Amok amok amok amok amok!_

"Stop that," Betsy said.

Remy whispered: "I... _can't_."

"How about you enter your meditative state?" Jean suggested.

"My what now?"

"Your 'happy place,'" she said.

"Oh, right. Okay," he said and closed his eyes.

A brush rasped on a hi-hat. Fingers on a double base, thrumming out a low beat. A tickle of piano keys. A trumpet, affixed with a mute, its meandering sound threading the other three instruments together. Remy sitting at a table in a club, dim blue light, anonymous amidst an audience of faceless people. He was alone, but didn't mind. Glass of amber-hued bourbon in front of him, splash of water, and a spiral of orange peel tossed in, just because. He smiled, let the music fill his head, and listened to the band's first set.

When the quartet paused to take five, he looked up from his drink. Both Jean and Betsy were now seated at the table with him. "Hey ladies, what'll you have?" he asked.

Jean and Betsy regarded one another, then decided to humor him. "A glass of wine would be nice," Jean said. Betsy requested the same.

"White or red?" he smiled at his dates.

"How about white?" Jean smiled back. "It's a little warm in here."

"Wait'll you hear de next set," Remy said and magicked a pair of wine glasses before the two women. "Things will get really hot then. So what's de verdict? Am I possessed?"

Jean shook her head. "We looked for any anomalies," she began. "Did you know...you have some suppressed memories in a vault at the bank. Gringotts?"

The trumpet let out an alarmed blurt. "I am aware," he began, feeling nervous. "You didn't -."

Betsy stopped him: "Jean wanted to check with you that it was intentional and not something that had been imposed on you."

"No, that's on me," he said, filing away a reminder to invest what happened in the Alley in his bank vault. "Did you see de dragon? Pretty cool, n'est-ce pas?"

"Your imagination does include quite the attention to detail," Jean conceded, sipping her wine. "This is very good. Maybe we should come here more often?"

"Sorry, private club," he told her. "But that Chardonnay from dis prosciutteria just outside of Rome. _Fantastico_."

The trio sat, watched the quartet return from their break, listened to the next set begin. "I think I know this one," Betsy said.

"Weh. _Take Five_ , pretty standard stuff."

Jean slid her empty glass across the table towards him. "I think after this we should probably go," Jean said. "Before anyone starts to think we've been eaten by dragons."

"But you haven't seen my red light district yet," he grinned.

"Oh, I _have._ And you are surprisingly more mundane than I would have thought," Betsy said and stood to depart. The trumpet made a " _wah-wah-waaaah_ " sound. "And on that note." The violet-haired woman departed.

"I'll see you in the real world," Jean told him.

"Maybe in a bit," Remy said. "Bit of a night-owl, me."

She nodded and like Betsy, faded away into the scenery. Remy resumed his "meditation" and stayed until he'd closed down the club.

Remy blinked himself back to reality, having completely lost track of time. He was still in the infirmary, sitting half-propped up in a bed. The lights were very dim. He saw he was not alone in the room. The last bed in the infirmary was concealed with a curtain. The one nearest him held the elven man. Remy sat up, turned and put his feet to the infirmary floor. He'd been given a more comfortable pair of thermal pajama bottoms, a black tee-shirt with a worn school's logo printed on the breast. After a brief and deeply unsatisfying conversation with the patient at the far end of the room (if you could call it a conversation, things were thrown in his direction), Remy approached the elf. He recalled the man's name was Kurt; Rogue's "annoying kid brother." Kurt was on a ventilator, had tubes going into his arms (Remy avoided looking too closely at that). He saw on Kurt's side table a string of rosary beads. Remy picked them up, sat at the man's bedside. Made the Sign of the Cross, then began the Apostles' Creed. He'd made it through one Our Father, the virtues of Faith, Hope and Charity; and then Glory Be when he heard a small rustle of sound. The man's head had turned in Remy's direction, his golden eyes open.

"Am I bothering you?" Remy asked him.

Kurt shook his head slightly: _No._

"Do you want me t'keep going?"

Slight nod. _Yes._

"I'm sorry I blew you up," Remy whispered to him. Desperate to alleviate some of his guilt he added: "It was an accident."

Kurt patted Remy's hand lightly where it rested with the beads on his bedside. _It's okay._

He finished two of the Mysteries when he was interrupted a second time. Kurt had fallen asleep. This time it was Kitty. She was carrying a tray of food in her hands and had a baby dragon on her shoulder. The creature emitted a low growl when he spied Remy.

"Shh, Lockheed," Kitty admonished him. To Remy she whispered: "Hey."

"Hey. My knight in shining armor," he whispered back. She smiled at him. "Is dat your dragon?"

Kitty shook her head. "He's no one's dragon. But he is my friend."

"Can I pet him?"

She laughed a little at this. She turned to Lockheed. "What do you think? Make peace?"

Lockheed made a noise that sounded like: _Harumph_!

"I'm sorry to report I lost my cloak you set fire to," he told the dragon. "I was going to save it for posterity. I'm very honored you lit my ass on fire."

Lockheed seemed to consider this, then hopped off Kitty's shoulder and onto the bed to clamber over Kurt's legs. He offered Remy his chin. Remy cautiously touched the creature's neck, silky smooth scales like a snake under his fingertips. Lockheed allowed him only a moment before giving another disgruntled chuff, then settled himself under Kurt's arm like a cat curling up.

Kitty moved to the back of the room where she deposited the tray on a table behind the privacy curtain. She returned and Remy stood from the chair, inviting her to sit. "Your friend woke up for a second there," he informed her.

Kitty looked delighted. "That's so great! I need to tell Hank! Thanks for sitting up with him."

He nodded, placed the rosary back onto the side table, made sure the crucifix was face up. "I'll see if I can find him."

"Uhm, okay...I mean. Do you know your way around?"

Remy grinned at her. "I have a general idea about de place. Where'd you think ole Bones McCoy is?"

_Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a...!_

"Knowing him, probably the kitchen," Kitty said and sat down in the chair Remy had vacated.

"Oh good, my favorite place. Do you think anyone will mind if I raid de pantry?"

"Just don't touch Logan's jerky, and you'll be fine."

"Protective of his snacks, enh?"

"Yes, and...I'm just warning you...we don't know what kind of animal it came from."

Remy departed the infirmary, his bare feet padded silently down the corridor. He knew he'd have to find a stairwell, as he'd destroyed the elevator. The door to the stairs leading upwards was just past the elevator shaft. Remy saw there were additional steps going downward...so yet another sub-sub basement. He'd have to go explore that later. Maybe that's where they kept the jet (he'd been right about the dragon, anyway!). Remy climbed two flights of steps, pushed the door open to find himself in the back of the foyer once again. The front entry door had been covered with a plywood board. The debris from Xavier's destroyed office had been cleared. Remy wondered where Rogue was; his first inquiry when he'd found himself face-to-face with Magneto again was to ask how she was doing. _Resting_ , was the answer he received. Wet Blanket was in a foul temper, which made Remy choose to walk in the opposite direction and away from Xavier's office. He passed through a large sitting room with lots of soft furnishings, a bookshelf of popular fiction and light reading, a table set up for games. Remy perused the shelf containing the games, and found two decks of playing cards. He pocketed them, but after a moment of consideration, replaced one deck and retained the other. No sense being greedy. He walked from the sitting room into a formal dining area. It overlooked the backyard where he and Rogue had stood saying goodbye to one another just a week ago. He recalled wanting to kiss her then, but feared he'd probably explode on the spot if he did. The dining room led to the kitchen. Remy paused at the doors to the double wide doorway. He heard voices in the kitchen. The voices were having a slightly-louder-than-civil conversation. Remy grimaced, thought to step backward and retreat. As he turned, he came face to chest with Hank McCoy. Remy stumbled backwards into the double doors. _How was someone so big able to be so quiet?_

"Ah, good evening, Monsieur Gambit," Hank told him. "Out for a little late-night promenade?" He sounded mildly dubious of Remy's intents and purposes.

"Uhm…" Remy began, amazingly at a loss for words. "No, just-I…"

Hank clapped him on the shoulders with his two large hands, turned Remy to face the doorway to the kitchen and marched him forward. Remy scrambled to open the sliding pocket doors before he could find himself smashed face-first into them. "I know!" Hank said loudly, interrupting the conversation occurring within the kitchen. "You must be here for a nighttime pantry raid. I myself am feeling a bit peckish. Let us survey our options, yes?"

There were four people at the far side of the room, seated at the kitchen table. They turned and regarded the newcomers, their faces all in an expression of irritation. Hank turned Remy once more to face a pair of pantry doors, hugging Remy close to his furry side to prevent any escape attempts. Hank opened the doors, flicking one then the second open with his free hand.

"Oh my stars, what on earth is this?" Hank said in a disappointed tone as he peered into the pantry. "Why, in _my_ day, this pantry used to be brimming with Twinkies, HoHos and Little Debbie snack cakes. Look at this sorry state of affairs!" He picked up a plastic cylindrical bag of rice cakes. "This is most, most disappointing."

Remy also examined the pantry's store. While he would eat most anything, and the pantry was better stocked than the one back home, Remy had to admit the shelves were full of unappetizing "snack smarter" options.

"Magnus decided on a healthy food initiative," Ororo explained from her place at the table. She was seated beside Logan. To her left was Scott. Opposite to Ororo, Jean.

"Another poor decision on his part," Hank complained so only Remy could hear. Remy felt instantaneous camaraderie with the blue-furred man.

Remy spotted something at the back of the pantry. Two boxes of wheat crackers. They were both open, one box had a tattered appearance. Remy reached in and took up the battered box, shook it. It didn't sound like crackers. He opened the box to find an assortment of candy bars. He held the open box out to Hank.

"Splendid!" Hank remarked, rummaged in the box's contents, and selected a 3Musketeers bar.

"I mean, Halloween was just a day or so ago," Remy said, recovering for himself a Twix (he was sad the last one had exploded). "How could there _not_ be candy?"

"Brilliant powers of deduction, my young friend," Hank said, and they toasted their good fortune with their respective candy bars. Hank steered Remy towards the kitchen table and pressed him into the seat separating Logan and Jean.

"Kitty said for me to tell you that Kurt woke up," Remy informed him.

"That is excellent news!" Hank announced. "I will follow up, post haste. Now, my fellow X-Folks, I will depart and leave you in the company of this fine young man. Please ensure he does not- _get lost_."

Remy was left with four pairs of eyes staring in his direction, all with various expressions of vague distrust or open curiosity. It was a familiar occurrence, except no one looked like they wanted to strangle him...yet.

 _Awkward…_ he thought. He shoved half of the candy bar into his mouth.

"So," Scott began. "Feeling...better?"

"Right as rain," Remy replied. "Thanks to your junior leaguers. Can't say I'd be alive without them."

"Right, about your attacker…" Scott said.

Remy got a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Just how do you know this - person?"

Remy slowly moved the candy bar towards his mouth a second time, stalling for time, when Logan pressed his wrist to the kitchen table.

"Answer the question," Logan said.

"Y'know what, I think I'd rather go back t'de infirmary and let St. Michael de archangel smother me in my sleep," Remy responded.

"You spoke with Warren?" Jean asked.

"Yeah, he's not too fond of me or my 'I'm sorry'," Remy informed her. "Threw a bedpan at me. Luckily, it was empty."

"A tragic accident," Ororo murmured. "I pray he will progress towards forgiveness."

"Not likely, is my thinking," Remy said. He was feeling pretty bad about the state Warren was in, more so since Remy had jumped to the conclusion that Warren was a spoiled rich pretty boy who was out to round up mutants. Remy hadn't realized that Warren Worthington III and Angel were one in the same. From what he'd seen in the social pages of the newspaper, Warren must have had his wings hidden under his well-tailored suits. Now Remy had come to find out that the team he was bankrolling _and_ participating in was helping children, not hurting them. _That'll learn me not to judge people_ , he thought.

"Going back to the man. Sinister…?" Scott was like a dog with a bone.

"Out t'get me," Remy said.

"Why?" Scott persisted.

"Don't know. Doesn't like takin' 'no' for an answer, I guess."

"And what was the question, bub?" Logan asked. Remy stared ahead at a place just over Ororo's shoulder, not meeting the man's icy gaze.

"He might've been my Plan A," Remy finally said. "Regarding de solution to my whole situa-ation." Here he made a loose gesture to indicate his chest.

_The sun is a mass of incandescent gas... a gigantic nuclear furnace…_

"What made you change your mind," Scott asked. "About Plan A?"

"Guy seemed a bit off," Remy responded. Understatement. It wasn't lost on Remy that the request Lurch had made, for Remy to round up a bunch of ask-no-questions ne'er do wells, had somehow been fulfilled within a month rather than a year. That the research Lurch wanted destroyed was not a lab or documentation, but actual people. So the next questions were, who was doing the experimentation on those people? Why did Lurch want them destroyed? And why did he want Remy to do it, when it seemed he was capable of doing it himself? Remy's knee bounced nervously. He pressed a hand to it, willing himself into stillness.

"Anybody here smoke?" he asked. "Only I am jonesing for a cigarette."

"Certainly not," Ororo said. "Although Logan partakes of the occasional cigar."

"Occasional?" Jean asked, raising her pale eyebrows at Logan. "What happened to: like a chimney? What changed? No longer trying to dull your sense of taste and smell?"

"Another one of Magnus' health initiatives. No smoking or imbibing alcohol on campus," Ororo answered. "We are to set good examples for the New Mutants."

Logan grumbled irritably.

 _What a Wet Blanket!_ Remy thought uncharitably of Magneto. _No gumbo, go-go, or do-do!_

Without a cigarette, and having completed his consumption of the candy bar, Remy reached into his pajama pocket and retrieved the pack of playing cards. He opened the box, ran a thumbnail over the top of the deck, then removed the cards. Under the table, he nervously began shuffling them.

Jean turned to Remy. "Do you think Sinister followed you here?"

Remy at least knew that Sinister had always intended on sending someone after his "misplaced research," that was not Remy's fault...entirely (though his mental catalog of murdering miscreants had apparently been mined without his knowledge). Then there was the comment Sabretooth had offered about relying on Remy to open the back door to the School. The thought of which made him sweat.

"You have some kind of response there, Cajun?" Logan asked.

Apparently, he'd been silent too long. "I don't know how he knows what he knows," Remy admitted. "How he knew me, how he found me, or how he got inta my head when no one else could."

"It is very fortunate then, that he is...gone," Ororo said.

"Would not normally agree wit' killing folks, but him, I'd happily dispatch a second or third time. Even if it cost me my immortal soul."

"How are _we_ going to know you, kid?" Logan asked, not unkindly. "Your name really 'Remy'?"

"Yup."

"'Remy' what?"

"That's it, unless you want my Confirmation name. Which is 'Etienne,' or Stephen, I guess you English-speakers would say."

"No family name?" Jean asked.

"No family."

"Rogue said you had an adoptive mother," Logan pressed.

"In which case, I will make a mental note not to tell her anything in confidence in de future."

"You can't blame her for giving us some background," Scott said. "Considering you're not being very forthcoming."

"I've talked plenty."

Ororo raised her hands. "I think that is enough for this evening," she said.

"I agree wit' de Warrior Princess," Remy was quick to say. "By de way, your handing me my ass was about de most fun I've had in a long time."

Ororo pressed her full lips into a questioning smile. "As I recall, it was you who tossed me down the hallway."

"Yeah, I cheated," Remy said. "Used my powers."

"I wondered how you were able to move so quickly."

"I wasn't moving quick, you were moving slow."

"I do not understand."

"I don't really either."

Scott lowered his head, made a small sigh, and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger. Remy thought he might be breaking the man.

Remy placed the deck above the kitchen table, cut and shuffled the deck in one hand. It made a soft "frrrrippp" noise.

"You play much?" Logan asked, gestured to the cards.

"Does Trump crap in a golden toilet?" Remy asked.

Jean put her hands over her face. She might have giggled or groaned.

"All right, deal us in," Logan said. "What's the game?"

"How 'bout Dealer's Choice? Choose your poison," he looked at Jean. "You ever do 'Big O'? Exciting. Gets ya goin'. Very satisfyin' conclusion."

"What?" Jean said, flummoxed.

Remy laughed dryly, and started dealing cards. Logan and Scott stared daggers at him. "Variation of Pot Limit Omaha. Five cards, not four."

Jean shook her head, looked at Ororo for some kind of confirmation that Remy wasn't speaking nonsense. Ororo shook her head, not understanding either.

"What're we playin' for?" Logan said and gathered his hand. Jean stood and looked in the pantry. She returned with a package of round crackers and dumped them onto the table.

"Poker chips...or in this case, poker crackers," Jean said, retaking her seat.

By the end of the evening, Remy had eaten the whole pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random References:
> 
> Amok amok amok - Disney's Hocus Pocus  
> Gringotts - there's a lot of Potter references folks  
> Bones McCoy - OG Star Trek  
> The Sun - They Might Be Giants  
> Warrior Princess - Xena: Warrior Princess
> 
> Next time: Library copy fees come with a cost too high to pay.
> 
> Merci beaucoup for your reviews, bookmarks, kudos and support. I write primarily to entertain myself, so your kind words are so encouraging. Makes me almost think I'm not bonkers!
> 
> I've got this story under control, and there's two more novels after that with the working titles of "Dealing with a Devil" and "Dealing in Futures." Hope you're in for the long haul.


	20. Chapter 20

The following day, Remy told his...bunk-mates?...captors?...custodians?... _ new acquaintances _ ...that he needed to go to the library. Magnus informed him they had a library at the School, two actually, and Remy was less than welcome to choose a book and read it, perhaps in his newly assigned quarters or better yet, back in a cell. 

“Except I’m not lookin’ for a book,” Remy told him. “I’m picking up a research article I’d requested.”

“Research into what, exactly?” Magnus asked in a clearly disbelieving tone of voice.

“Nun-ya.”

“What is ‘nun-ya’?”

“ _ None ya  _ business. Can’t believe you fell for dat one.”

Rogue volunteered to take Remy to the library before any further structural damage was done to the mansion. She had to return her borrowed library book anyway and find something different.

“Do not think for a moment that we will fail to pursue you, should you make an effort to escape,” Magnus informed him.

“I’m more afraid of de librarians and their overdue fees than you,” Remy snapped back. Rogue dragged Remy through the back door and onto the patio.

“If ya don’t quit, Remy, Ah’m going to have to find you some professional help for your suicidal ideation!” Rogue said as she marched him down the path towards town.

“Who is dat guy, t’talk to me like I’m some idiot? Only people who actually  _ know _ me can talk t’me like I’m an idiot! I resent his assumptions when I’ve yet to prove t’him true idiocy.”

“You could just show even a modicum of respect, sugah!” Rogue said with exasperation.

“I will when he does t’me!”

“You always this stubborn?” she asked, shaking her head. 

“No, I’m not,” Remy insisted. “I am always reevaluating my beliefs based on new evidence. I am actually very easily persuaded t’do and think newer, stupider things---to my own detriment! So you might be right to find me help, chère, seeing as how I’m likely to commit self-harm.”

Rogue had calmed a bit, and slowed her pace now that Remy was out of Magneto’s line of sight. “Do ya really want to go t’the library?” she asked.

“Weh. And maybe someplace where I can buy some smokes and candy.”

Rogue shook her head in an admonishing way. “What’re you lookin’ for at the library?”

“I said, I got a research article there.”

“Alright, alright,” she said in a placating tone. “Ah believe ya. What’s it about?”

“Me, having too much curiosity for my own good.”

“So, more self-harm?” 

“If it’s got as much jargon in it as de article McCoy wrote, then yes. I am like to beat my head against de wall.”

“Do ya ever answer a question with a straight answer?” she asked, looking up at him.

Remy shrugged, noncommittally.

Once at the library, Remy returned to the reference desk. Lara wasn’t there, she was back in the stacks about to get sniffed. Remy walked down the aisle, said: “Pardon my reach,” and injected himself between the skeevy patron and the librarian. Remy stood several inches taller than the sniffer, and gave the man a glare. He was not wearing his sunglasses. The man stumbled backwards, a look of fear on his face, and ran back up the aisle.

Lara straightened from where she was crouched, retrieving a book from a lower shelf. “Here’s the...book…? Hey, where’d he go?”

She looked up at Remy. “Hey, girl,” he said to her, propping his elbow on a shelf, resting his chin on his fist. 

Lara poked the book into Remy’s chest. “Don’t you ‘hey, girl’ me, buster,” she said, smiling. “Nice to see your face---finally. But I thought you were going?”

“Change of plans,” he said. “I’m enrolled in de school up de way. Trial admission. Current status: Undeclared.”

Lara was momentarily confused, then realization dawned on her. “Oo-oh, you mean at Xavier’s. Well, that makes sense. You here for your research paper?”

“Did it come?”

“It did, and it’s a doozy,” Lara said, leading him back to the reference desk. “No judgments! I’m just saying it's long. You’re going to have to pay your copy fees this time.”

“C’mon, chère,” Remy said. “I am strapped for cash at de moment! Can’t you put it on my tab?”

Lara relented, retrieved the research report from under her desk where it was wrapped in a manila envelope. “Here you go,” she said. “I guess that means you’ll be back if I put it on your tab. You’d better not stiff me, John.”

Remy paused. “My name’s not John. It’s Remy.”

“Are you for real? Now that you’ve got this weird accent thing going on, you’ve decided to become a different nationality all of a sudden? Who are you, Madonna?”

“I’m for real,” he told her. “Only dat I was using an alias before, so I could conduct super-secret espionage, break into a highly-guarded institution, obtain classified information, and then flee via de underground tunnels runnin’ from here to New York City.”

“Oh, ha ha ha,” Lara said sarcastically. 

“Thanks for this,” he said, holding up the envelope. Rogue was approaching from the popular fiction section, several paperback novels in her hands. 

“Find what you need, sugah?” she asked. 

“Yup, you got any spare change on you?”

“Ah don’t,” she replied. She smiled at the librarian. “Can you remind me what numbers recipe books are?”

“641.5s,” Lara replied. “Looking for a specific kind of recipe? Particular regional cuisine? Method?”

“That’s okay, honey, Ah’ll just browse a bit,” she said and pointed to Remy. “Can you mind this one for a sec?”

“We don’t offer babysitting services, but I’ll let you know if he wanders off,” replied the librarian.

“Et tu, Bruté?” he whispered to Lara. 

She raised her eyebrows. “Curtis  _ said  _ you’d found a hottie with a naughty body,” she grinned wolfishly.

“You...you’d better hush up!” he hissed in an undertone. “I’m gonna kick Curt up and down dis block!”

Rogue soon returned holding her books to her chest. “You ready?” she asked Remy. “We should probably get back before they release the hounds. Or Logan.”

Lara’s smile was very big, and her eyebrows very high. “Bonjourrr,  _ Remy _ ,” she trilled.

Remy pointed a finger at her in warning, kept pointing at her until he was standing in front of the circulation desk in the lobby. 

“You got a thing for that girl, hunh?” Rogue observed.

“I have a thing for every girl,” Remy informed her, draping an arm over her shoulders. She stiffened and shoved his arm away.

“Don’t do that,” she said in a slightly hostile undertone.

Remy took a careful step backwards and put his hands behind his back. “Okie doke,” he said. “Sorry, sorry.”

She shook her head impatiently and checked out her books. 

They started walking back to the School in silence. Remy was looking up at the canopy of leafless trees overhead. Breaking the quiet, Rogue asked: “You wanted to go to a convenience store?”

“I don’t have any money,” he told her.

“Has that stopped you from taking what you wanted before?” she asked.

Remy felt his expression harden. He chose not to respond, to confirm or refute her assumption. It was likely she’d see no difference between him knocking over a convenience store than him siphoning off funds from a Ponzi scheme-running white-collar criminal. 

_ I am not a crook! _

Understanding his silence as anger, but not the reason for it, Rogue said softly: “Ah’m sorry if it seemed like Ah overreacted back there. It’s just that with my powers…”

“S’fine,” he said curtly. “I understand about not wanting to be touched.”

They returned to the School, entered through the back door and into the kitchen. “I’ll be in that room you made up for me, not poking bears,” he informed her. 

Rogue put her books down on the counter, seeming to want to talk more, but Remy had run out of patience for any more question and answer sessions.

He went upstairs, turned right down the hallway, found the room they had sent him to. The room was furnished with a bed, two nightstands flanking either side with lamps, a dresser and a desk with a chair. Remy would much prefer to return to his efficiency apartment, but he didn’t know what these X-Folks intended on doing with him, or how long they planned on having him stay. It seemed his powers had come under full control, and he didn’t know if it had something to do with Rogue touching him, or the one-two punch of Kitty turning him intangible at the same time Betsy sticking a proverbial fork in his brain. He hoped it had nothing to do with Sinister and whatever it was the creep had done to him. Remy had woken up in a panic early that morning, thinking he couldn’t breathe, feeling the constriction around his body, the sensation of tendrils of something crawling into his mouth and nose and down his throat, pouring into his ears, burrowing into his eyes. The feeling of complete violation was overwhelming. He shoved that into his vault along with everything else horrible and sickening that he’d done or had done to him.

Remy sat at the desk, opened the envelope and removed the contents. The report had to be at least 100 pages long, titled Project: Black Womb of the Eugenics Information Center in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Remy thought:  _ ick _ .

The study was less of a an article than a very long list of mutants, given numbers and letters based on date of birth, sex, and category. The mutant subjects were broken down into the same categories McCoy had outlined in his case study. The categories were further delimited by various mutant abilities falling within the category. 

Remy studied the categories, abilities, and classes:

**A.) Psychic/Mental**

Illusionist / Projectionist

Hypnotist / Persuasive

Magician / Spiritualist

Precognitive* / Retrocognitive*

Telepath / Empath

Telekinetic

*may cross over with chronal manipulation (see category B)

**B.) Energy Generation/Manipulation**

Adaptive Power Manipulation*

  * Energy Transmutation - Electromagnetic / Potential-Kinetic / Thermal
  * Chronal Manipulation 



Generative Power Creation

  * Chemical / Ionic / Electromagnetic / Gravitational / Nuclear / Sonic / Thermal



Locational Manipulation (teleportation / portal creation)

*certain Energy Adaptives may cross into Environmental category (see category C)

**C.) Environmental**

Manipulatives

  * Animal*
  * Atmospheric
  * Earth / Mineral
  * Fire 
  * Vegetal
  * Water / Ice / Steam
  * Chemical / Electromagnetic / Ionic / Potential - Kinetic / Gravitational / Nuclear / Sonic / Thermal 



*animal manipulatives may cross into Psychic / Mental category (see category A)

**D.) Physical**

Abnormalities, Physical Non-Human* (excluding genetic disorders/defects)

Accelerated Recuperation / Regeneration

Enhanced Agility / Reflexes / Strength / Stamina

Flight

Intangibility / Invincibility

Longevity

Metamorph / Physical Transformative 

*list of documented physical abnormalities

  1. Extraneous limbs (ex: additional limbs, fewer limbs, fins, flippers, horns, tails, wings)
  2. Eye-color abnormality
  3. Hair-color abnormality 
  4. Skin-color abnormality
  5. Skin-texture abnormality (ex: Fur, Scales, Slime)



  
  


The mutant’s alpha/numeric identification would then be followed with a ranking of where they fell on a power level chart, lowest to highest: Dreg, Gamma, Beta, Alpha, Omega. The list of over one-hundred mutants in the study was then used to extrapolate the total mutant population globally and their general breakdown between categories. Remy found the information alarming, but at the same time, interesting. Alarming, because who were all these mutants, where did they come from and where were they now? Morlocks, possibly? He could tell by many of the birthdates that some would be quite old now. The youngest, his own age. On the other hand, it was interesting to see and compare where he might fall in the various categories and know there were others like him, people he could potentially learn something from...if he could find them. If they lived yet. There were few that fell into every category, most fell solely within one classification, be it mental or physical.

19450330/M/A/ **ΑA** (PE  _ Ω _ ) was one example, a man born on the 30th of March in 1945, with a special designation of AAlpha in the Psychic/Mental category. Thanks to the Physics book, Remy understood that the PE stood for ‘potential.’ There were no rankings for this man in classifications in B, C, or D.

There were a few outliers, however. One in particular had been typed in in italics:  _ 19760418/M/A/ _ **Α** _ B/C/ _ **Ω** _ D/ _ **Ω** _. _ _ 1 _

A male born 21 years ago. An Alpha in the mental category, Omega in the combined Energy/Environmental category, and an Omega in the physical category. It was followed up in the footnotes: 1: Outlier determined as high-risk/dangerous. Eliminated / terminated from study to avoid skewing final results. 

_ Eliminated / Terminated?  _ Well, that didn’t sound good. 

Another major understatement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Remy gets a case of cooties.
> 
> Random references:
> 
> Et tu Brute - Julius Caesar, Shakespeare
> 
> Not a crook - Richard Nixon
> 
> Short chapter this time...I suppose I could post another this weekend if you want.


	21. Chapter 21

Remy stayed in bed a long time afterwards, taking up his routine of sleeping from 10am to 6pm, going back to his normal working hours. Some small measure of normalcy. Unfortunately, in his dreams, he saw babies floating in apothecary jars. He was having a hard time processing what he’d read. 

_I don’t know how he knows what he knows. How he knew me, how he found me, or how he got inta my head when no one else could._

Remy had some intuition that he’d find something out about Sinister. If the man was so preoccupied with mutant research, why not try looking for him in the footnotes of a mutant research project? But why was Sinister fixated on him? Why was Sinister following him around like a bad rumor? Remy stared at the names on the obscure research paper for some time, Xavier, Mueller, Milbury, hoping it might trigger some memory, ping something in his internal catalog, but there was nothing. There was a fourth name mentioned in the study, the cataloger who had assisted in the classification and recording of the mutant children, Irene Adler. That name meant nothing to him either. Remy thought he could ask someone here at the School, even ask McCoy how he’d found this study in the first place. But the thought of someone else possibly knowing more about Remy than he knew about himself put him off that avenue of inquiry immediately. Maybe there was something on the Internets?

Or. He could ask Jean-Luc, his father. 

_Remy Ricardo: “Jean-Lucy...I think ju have some ‘splaining to do!”_

_Jean-Lucy: “Aaugh, Remyyy! Waaaanh!”_

It was _almost_ amusing to picture Jean-Luc in a red curly wig and 1950s era housecoat. Unfortunately, Remy seemed to be of two minds; one who was happy to amuse himself with nonsensical diversions, and one who was very, very pissed off, not entertained in the least. Remy had to admit that the last couple of days might have pushed him over the edge; he might be losing his pea-pickin’ mind.

_Let me tell you a little something about Jean-Luc, Remy,_ Candra had said, and as it turned out, she had a lot to tell him. _Do you think he gives a_ damn _about you, for anything other than what you represent to the Guilds? Do you think he’s motivated by anything other than his ponderous sense of honor and dedication to the Guild members? Who all hate you, by the way. Do you imagine he might care about you?_

_Oh, you do?_

_Then why would he abduct you as an infant and hand-deliver you to the Antiquary? Leave you in the Collection, not even to be treated as a child, but a possession, like some mystical relic to be preserved until the end of time? You know he watched you struggle, the entire time, and did_ nothing _. He knew where you were when he left you to roam the streets...for_ five _years. He orchestrated your meeting with BellaDonna. Arranged for you to steal his own wallet. Set you up, like the stooge you are, so you’d willingly go along with his plans. Gladly, even! If it meant you’d earn his love! Which you sorry, stupid boy, neither have nor deserve._

Candra could be lying. If Remy thought something was black, she’d insist it was white, then tell him he was insane for ever thinking otherwise. She could lie, but she didn’t need to. Not if she could destroy him with the truth. There’d be no asking Jean-Luc for answers, not even now that Remy seemed to have his powers under control. There was one last hurdle to going home; all the things he had said to Jean-Luc when they last saw each other, when Remy was absolutely fueled with hatred. And how Candra relished that exchange, was slightly disappointed when Remy didn’t actually kill the man. These thoughts were all just more assets for his vault, stored away to collect interest. 

It was 6:30pm, and the sun had set behind the trees. Downstairs the X-People were having dinner together, like a big happy family. His brain had nothing amusing, suggestive, or distracting to say. Remy closed his eyes. 

He woke again to a tapping on the door. Remy thought to ignore it, turning over onto his side. By now, the sky was dark. He saw a small silver analog clock, old-fashioned in style, on the nightstand. The clock’s silver hands pointed to 10:42. It was beyond time to get out of bed, but that seemed an insurmountable task. He hated when this black mood thing happened to him, the not wanting to get up and do. Like a giant weight resting on him. The knocking on the door continued. He thought about pulling a pillow over his head when Rogue’s voice asked if he was hungry.

He wanted to say ‘no’ but his stomach replied otherwise. Remy forced himself into an upright position. Observing his face and hair in the mirror, he made sounds at the door that he’d be out in a minute. He washed his face and attempted to restrain his hair while in the attached bathroom. When he opened his door, Rogue was still standing there. 

“Ah saved you a plate down in the kitchen,” she told him. He couldn’t read her expression. She turned and went down the hall and he followed.

“Late, ain’t it?” he asked her. “Hope you aren’t waitin’ up. I keep odd hours.”

“Ah couldn’t sleep. I was readin’ in the downstairs parlor.” 

“Anything good?”

“Mostly just smut,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder at him as she descended the stairs. The faintest of smiles.

He managed to smile back. Rogue walked past the ruin of Xavier’s office to go down the hall to the kitchen. Unfortunately, Magnus was there, looking at Remy through the wall, which now stripped of its wiring and nails, had been reduced to just broken studs and crumbled plaster. 

Remy felt himself heave a great inward sigh when Magnus stood from the desk to walk towards the foyer.

“Do you find yourself comfortable?” Magnus asked, and not in the way that said ‘make yourself at home.’ 

Remy suppressed the urge to fair Magnus with a withering look, a derisive eye roll, he didn’t have the energy to argue. “Yes, thank you,” he said instead, turning to face the man. He spoke with not an ounce of irony: “I am much obliged for your hospitality.”

Magnus was momentarily given pause. 

“I should have asked proper. This is how we do in my neck of de woods,” Remy said. He folded himself at the waist in Mangus’ direction. “This thief humbly requests sanctuary in your territory. This thief pledges his loyalty and service in return for de shelter and protection this sanctuary affords.”

Magnus was staring at the top of Remy’s head, likely believing Remy to be making fun of him. “Dis is de part where you say either: ‘dis thief is protected here,’ or ‘dis thief can hit de bricks.’ Actually, it’s some other formal response, but I’ve never actually heard anyone say it.”

“What kind of thief are you, exactly?” Magnus said, perhaps somewhat intrigued and not irritated.

Remy straightened to look at him. “I won’t say I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I do! I can steal most anything that isn’t nailed down, but my speciality is de return of ill-gotten valuables and fine art to their rightful owners, in exchange for monetary compensation and bragging rights. My service to de world at large is the purveyance of all things magical and mystical to a place where they are safe from evil sorcerers, demons, and de like. I hold de standing record for fewest magical curses! Only four!” Here he held up four fingers. “Though de last one seems to be stickin’ ‘round...I can’t stop thinkin’ in Pig Latin, but at least I’ve stopped speakin’ it alla time.”

“What evidence can you provide that proves you’re speaking the truth?” Magnus asked.

“Oday ouyay otnay elievebay emay?” Remy asked. When Magnus did not respond, he added: “You could speak to my uncle, as he did de un-cursing. Doc McCoy should know him.”

“And your uncle would be...?”

“Not a family relation. Honorific title only, I was told not t’call adults solely by their first names growing up. Uncle Stephen. Stephen Strange.”

“Doctor Strange is an ally of yours?” Magnus said with some incredulity.

“Honorary godfather, actually,” Remy said. “He’ll vouch for me, I think.” _Unless he’d had a tête-à-tête with Jean-Luc and maybe now I’ve royally screwed myself,_ he thought. Nick Fury might also be a character witness, (but, why, oh why, did Remy think stealing that jet was a good idea!?), but seeing as how Magnus was an escaped terrorist, probably not wise to bring Fury into the loop.

“We shall see,” Magnus said. “Then we can decide if you’re better suited here, or perhaps in some detention center.”

“Kind of you to consider my options for me. I love when dat happens.”

Sensing a storm brewing, Rogue stepped forward and lightly took Remy’s arm to guide him to the kitchen. “‘Night, Magnus,” she told him. 

Remy offered another brief bow in his holiness’ direction and followed Rogue into the kitchen. 

“Have a seat, sugah,” she said and Remy assumed the same chair he had taken the night prior. Luckily, the kitchen was vacant this time save for himself and Rogue.

She put a plate into the microwave. “It won’t be as good as it was before,” she told him. “You should’ve come down for dinner.”

“S’alright,” he said. “Nobody wants to watch me eat. I don’t know how many times my Tatie told me not to talk wit’ my mouth full.”

Rogue deposited the plate in front of him and gave him a fork and spoon. She returned to the microwave to make a plate for herself.

“What’s dis?” he asked, though it was evident that it was a variation of étouffée. “You made me a real home-cooked meal?”

“They don’t have crawfish up here,” she responded as she sat beside him. “Ah had to make it with shrimp. Which doesn’t reheat all that good.”

“I think dis might be de nicest thing anyone’s done for me,” he said. “Especially when I’ve been nothing but a jerk dis whole day.”

“Not the whole day,” she said, teasing. “You were asleep for most of it.”

He laughed a little at that. “Watchin’ me sleep, are you?”

Rogue might have blushed, she looked down anyway. The kitchen was very dim, only the light over the stovetop cast some illumination into the room. 

“You gonna eat, or not?” she asked.

“You got any hot sauce?” he asked.

“Sure, in the pantry,” she responded and made to stand.

“I can get it,” he told her. He stood and walked to the pantry, opened the doors and peered inside. “Well, turns out I can’t find it.”

Rogue joined him at the pantry doors. “It’s right here, sugah. If it was a snake, it’d a bit cha.”

Remy accepted the proffered bottle. “What’s dis?” he asked dubiously.

“Hot sauce.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know _what_ dis is.”

“Says ‘original hot sauce’ on the bottle.”

Remy turned the bottle over and looked at the back label. “This here says ‘manufactured in Missoura,’ by a company in _New Jersey_. I’m not about to pour New Jersey on my food. Where’s de Tabasco?”

“I don’t think we have any,” she said.

Remy stared at her in shock. “I gotta get outta dis place!”

She smiled. “Ah’ll add it to the grocery list for next time.”

Remy put the bottle back onto the shelf and closed the doors. “Can’t be tryin’ to feed me that New Jersey spicy ketchup when there’s a perfectly good hundred-some-year-old hot sauce company practically operation’ in my backyard back home.”

“Ah didn’t think you’d be so picky,” she said as they walked back to the table.

“Picky? I’m _loyal!_ ” he insisted. “If I didn’t have a terrible fear of pokey things, I’d get de logo tattooed over my heart!”

“You’d better stop flapping your gums, and eat before this is stone cold,” she gestured to his plate. “Hot sauce or not hot sauce.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, resumed his seat and picked up a spoon. He took up a mouthful, chewed and swallowed.

“It’s alright?” she asked hopefully.

Remy considered. “I think you coulda let de roux go for another three-four minutes,” he said and grinned. 

Rogue threw up her hands in frustration and said: “Ugh!”

“Kiddin’, chère. It’s great. Tastes like home. Merci bien.”

“It turned out okay,” she said, and took up her own spoon. 

“You could learn how t’take a compliment,” he told her.

She glanced up at him. “You could learn how t’answer a question.”

“Touché. All right, I say a compliment, you ask me a question.”

“Fine then.”

“You are de prettiest woman I have ever clapped eyes on,” he said earnestly. 

Rogue looked away, looking embarrassed. “Thanks, sugah.”

“See, was dat so hard?”

“Okay, now it’s mah turn. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“How about I give you de top three, _Cliff’s Notes_ version?”

“Top three things then.”

“Number one: I am first and foremost de bestest thief in de world.” 

“Not too humble then, got it,” Rogue said.

“Number two: I am Jean-Luc’s and Matilde’s favorite youngest adopted son.”

“That’s a good one. What’s the third?”

“Huge Backstreet Boys fan.”

Rogue coughed out a laugh. “You are _not_.”

"Oh yeah? _‘I don't care who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love me.._.’”

“Ah don’t think that tune is in your vocal range,” she told him, putting her hands over her ears. 

“No, not a tenor, me.”

“Baritone, I’d say.”

“So what’d you say you are?” Remy asked her.

“Oh, Ah don’t know, can’t hit those high notes without my voice crackin’.”

“I mean, your top three things.”

Rogue appeared to think. “One, X-Man. Two, a friend. A loyal friend.”

“Three?”

“Huge Dolly fan.”

“Parton, safe to assume?” Rogue nodded and he added: “De woman’s a national treasure. Sends free books to little kids.”

“Is that where you got your collection?”

“ _Tant pis._ It’s only for de five and under set, chère. If I had gobs of money like Dolly, I’d be doin’ the same thing.”

“Couldn’t you always get gobs of money from a bank?” she teased.

“Not that kinda thief,” Remy said and finished his plate.

“No, you said -- you’re an art thief. That doesn’t...pay well?”

“Haven’t been under contract in some time. I am significantly low on walkin’ around money. What’d you do if you had de cash?”

“Hm. Well,” Rogue began, thinking. “Ah guess Ah’d also do something for kids. Like maybe help kids from...bad homes.”

“All right, we’ll pool our pennies. Start a part-group home, part-library.”

“That’s a good plan, Remy. You still hungry?” She didn’t wait for an answer before switching her still-full plate for his.

Remy smiled at her, gestured to the plate with his spoon. “Which part of dis has your cooties on it?” 

Rogue propped her chin on her fist. “You got a problem with mah cooties?”

“I just want t’know which part came t’your mouth, so I can be close to your lips by way of vicarious experience.”

Remy was pretty sure she blushed then. She gave him the stink eye and raised her hand smack his arm playfully. He might have recoiled and she might have noticed. “Ah’m just teasin’, sugah,” she said with chagrin.

To hide his overreaction, he snatched her hand by the fingers and said: “No, dis is my hand now. Where should I keep it? My pocket?”

Now Rogue wrenched her hand away. “Don’t.”

“Sorry. Usually I save testing de limits of physical boundaries for de third date.”

“How gentlemanly.”

Ignoring her change in tone he sang: “‘ _Islands in the stream...that is what we are. No one in between_ \---,’ c’mon chere, I know you know dis one.”

Rogue folded her arms across her chest, but let herself smile. She sang softly: “‘ _How can we be wrong? Sail away with me...to another world.’”_

Together: _“And we rely on each other, ah ha. From one lover to another, ah haa.”_

“See, you do got a pretty voice,” Remy told her. 

“You’re no slouch...but you’re not Kenny either.”

“What I lack in quality, I make up for with quantity and volume. Got near perfect recall for every song I ever heard. It is my blessing...it is my _curse_!”

Rogue laughed. “You play anything?” she asked.

“Harmonica,” he told her. “My daddy tried to have me start piano, for dexterity. But I can’t hardly carry an upright around in my pocket, now can I?”

“Dexterity?” Rogue asked. “Your daddy’s not a thief too?”

“It’s a family-run operation,” he admitted. “What’s your family do?”

Rogue’s expression turned inward, closed off a bit. She seemed sad. “Fervent mutant rights activists and freedom fighters.”

“So, I see where you got it from,” Remy told her. 

“Well, there’s a wrong way t’go about it,” Rogue began, “and the way Ah’ve come to know how it should be done.”

“There’s a wrong way t’fight for your rights?” he asked. “I won’t hold it against anyone for blowin’ up a government building, so long as no one was in it.”

Rogue shook her head. “Ah can’t agree. That’s not the answer, it just gives ‘em more ammunition to throw back at us. Ah learned...the hard way.” She seemed to consider something, then drew a deep breath: “Remy…”

Remy extended his hand to her, choosing not to try to take her hand, but instead make an offer. “Hey, I already told you, ‘don’t care who you are, where you're from, what you did…’ You can thank me for not singing it dis time.”

Rogue smiled to herself, unfolded her arms and took his hand. She tugged him forward gently, leaned forward in her chair. Remy’s gaze fixed on hers, then moved to her mouth. He found himself leaning closer to her as well, but when he felt the softness of her breath on his cheek, she abruptly jerked away.

Remy straightened slowly. “Must be I need t’brush my teeth again,” he said smiling, wondering if he’d understood the signals wrong. 

Rogue nervously took her hand away, picked up the two empty plates and brought them to the sink. “Ah’m probably going to go to bed now,” she said and rinsed the plates. 

“I guess I’ll go back t’my room. Seeing as how people don’t like me poking around,” Remy said. “You got anything good t’read in your library?”

“You get through your research?”

“It was...heavy lifting,” Remy said, not wanting to think about it lest he end up with nightmares again. 

“We can stop in the front parlor,” she told him. “C’mon, Ah’ll show you. No kids books though.”

“I’ll have to challenge myself,” he said and followed her from the room.

In the sitting room, she showed him the shelves of popular fiction, memoirs, and magazines. He found a set of paperback science fiction books, _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_.

Rogue said: “Ah think those were Bobby’s.”

“Who’s Bobby?” Remy asked. 

“The cute boy with the light brown hair, blue eyes,” Rogue replied. “Also known as ‘Iceman.’”

“‘Cute boy’,” he smirked. “You don’t look like de ‘cute boy’ kinda girl.”

Rogue put her hands on her hips. “And Ah suppose _you_ think you know what kinda girl Ah am?”

Remy held up his hands, the book clasped in one of them. “The kinda girl who’d toss me inta a lake if I got too fresh?”

“Hm, so you do catch on quick,” she shook her finger at him. “C’mon, let's get you t’bed.” Rogue paused and realized her wording was a mistake. She put her hand over her eyes and braced herself.

“I think I’ll be sitting up awhile,” he told her. He could feel his grin, almost painfully wide, watching her discomfort. “Need t’get myself to calm down a bit before I turn in.”

Rogue looked warily over her raised hand at him, trying to search out the innuendo in his sentence.

“Got to feeling a bit _overstimulated_ ,” he added.

Rogue heaved out a breath. “Alright. To your room. And Ah’m lockin’ you in.” She approached and took his hand, guided him out of the sitting room and up the staircase. When they reached the door to Remy’s quarters, she told him: “You stay put, and stay outta trouble.”

He lightly pressed her fingers in his own. “You can pick me up tomorrow and we can start again where we left off. There’s a couple more verses of _Islands in de Stream_ to go through yet.”

Rogue was looking up at him. She began to rise from the ground to meet him at eye level and Remy realized she was hovering a few inches above the carpet. She leaned towards him. Not to be lured again, he kept his back pressed to the doorframe. For what seemed to be an egregiously long amount of time, she moved slowly closer. The anticipation was both agonizing and incredibly exciting. He felt her lips press against his. Remy slowly inhaled and released his breath, gently returned her kiss. She drew away, and he instantly missed her touch.

Rogue drew a shaky breath, looked into his eyes, then away. “G’night,” she said quietly and lowered herself to the carpet.

Remy replied: “Night. Sweet dreams. Will I see you in the mornin’?”

“Bright eyed and bushy tailed, sugah. Set your alarm clock. We’ll have a busy day.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remy's Random References:
> 
> Ricky Ricardo/Lucy - I Love Lucy sitcom
> 
> Is Remy really a Backstreet Boys fan or was that a joke?
> 
> Dolly's Imagination Library is a real thing, started in ‘95 - get your kids free books!
> 
> Islands in the Stream - Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton
> 
> I got to meet James Asmus, who wrote the 2nd Gambit ongoing, in person. I asked two questions, can Gambit sing, yes, the blues, obvi, and can be play anything, yes, harmonica. 
> 
> Next time: Gambit gets the nickel-tour, courtesy of Rogue. 


	22. Chapter 22

Rogue was shocked at her own boldness, at her choice to kiss Remy in the hall. The previous moment, the one in the kitchen, was  _ not  _ her choice. Carol could see Rogue’s very obvious attraction to Remy. Carol wanted to make a joke of it, lean forward and press her mouth to Remy’s, and make Rogue uncomfortable. When Remy moved towards her, it was enough to break the spell Carol had over her. Her fearfulness was stronger than Carol’s meanness.

Later, she’d stood on her toes and then lifted herself into the air so his height was not an imposition on her. When he leaned back against the doorframe and let her kiss him, and did not advance on her or persist, it was exactly what she wanted. His lips left a tingling warmth on hers, as if there was a live current running beneath his skin. She wondered if the rest of him would feel the same. Felt instantly flushed all over for even thinking about it.

She’d meant to tease him with her ‘cute boy’ comment. Rogue had thought at one time that she and Bobby might be more than friends. But with the lack of a physical commitment on both of their parts, she realized that it wasn’t fair to either of them to press it any further. She did not have the same physical reaction to Bobby as she did to Remy. Remy was so different; darker, warmer skin, darker hair, dark dark eyes, a dark, knowing smile. A different build, and she’d seen plenty of it when he’d first been brought into the mansion. His body was not an overall even musculature, but a focused build, like an Olympic swimmer. Like he was built to do one thing, and do it well. 

_ push ups? _ Carol suggested.  _ bet you’d like to be under him while he counts sets.  _

The thought of being beneath him both frightened her and sent a rush of desire that tightened her lower belly.  _ Shut up!  _ she screamed.  _ I won’t let you ruin this! _

_ you ruined my life, it’s only fair, _ Carol said, and feeling both furious and guilty, Rogue recognized she was right. 

She walked down the hall to where Remy was staying, knocked on the door. It was nearly eight am, and she knew he’d been up late the night before. But he wasn’t asleep. He opened the door and smiled at her. Rogue’s heart squeezed in her chest. Remy beckoned her into his room and sat on the edge of his bed. 

“You need a hairbrush, sugah? Did we forget to give you one?” His hair was a damp tangle that fell to his shoulders, he must have just showered. Water droplets stained the shoulders of his shirt which Rogue guessed might have been one of Scott’s cast-offs given the size and school logo treatment. 

“I got a brush,” he told her and pulled a sneaker onto his foot. “This is de outcome. ‘Fraid it doesn’t get any better.” He pulled on the second sneaker and looked at his feet. “These hand-me-downs are better’n what I got.”

“We should probably get you set up with a new set a duds,” Rogue told him.

Remy stood. “I have some clothes,” he told her. “Stashed at a flat nearer de library.”

“Maybe we can go pick ‘em up?” Rogue suggested.

He nodded. “Got any other plans for me?” he asked, raised a dark eyebrow. The way he said it insinuated something.

“Ah thought Ah’d give you a formal tour,” Rogue said. “Satisfy your curiosity before it kills ya.”

“Sounds good. Where should we start?”

Rogue nodded to the hall. “C’mon, we’ll go through the parts that don’t have giant holes blown through ‘em.”

They proceeded down the hall. She told him that he was sharing this part of the wing with the male members of X-Factor, who were temporarily in residence. 

“So, I gather they used t’live here, but now don’t?” Remy asked. When Rogue nodded he continued: “Why not?”

Rogue drew a breath. “Well, they kinda went their separate ways. Went t’school. Started jobs. Joined the Defenders and Avengers. Died…”

“Jean, right? I thought I’d heard Logan say she was back from de dead. She looks plenty alive t’me.”

Rogue nodded. “Ah guess rumors of her death were greatly exaggerated.”

“And Jean and Scott, they’re a matched set?”

Rogue shook her head. “No, Scott is married. His wife is Maddie. They have a baby.”

Remy had a flash of something pass over his face. Concern? “And where are they?” he asked finally.

“Alaska, Ah think,” Rogue responded. “Anyway, that was another reason for him to go. Ororo thought if she’d take over leadership from him, he’d head on back to his family. But...Ah guess not.”

They were silent for a moment as they walked down the hall. “I guess we shouldn’t be gossipin’ about de man,” Remy finally said.

“You’re gonna learn pretty fast, sugah, nothin’ stays a secret ‘round here for very long.”

“Dis’ll be a different change of pace. In my family, we ain’t got nothing but secrets. Think I’m considering setting up a hermitage, get away from it all.”

“Ah think you’d get pretty bored not having anyone to talk at,” she said.

“Talk t’myself all de time,” he smiled. “Brilliant conversationalist.”

She took him towards the main staircase. “Center of the dorms, Magnus’ room is here. The women’s quarters are down that way. You’ll find a laundry over here. The kids, the New Mutants, they’re at the back of the women’s dorm area, took over the old study hall. Ororo is upstairs in the loft.”

She guided him down the staircase. “You’ve seen our parlor, dining, kitchen. We had to expand that, take over the old formal sitting room. Switched our parlor for the formal dining, there’s just too many people to feed here now. Xavier’s office you musta taken a gander at that, Ah suppose.”

“Sorry it got trashed. I can help fix it. I know some electrical stuff. I hardly set anything on fire anymore.”

“Ah think we’ll leave it to the professionals, Remy. You been in the formal library?”

“No, show me.”

Rogue took him into the library. He wandered over to the shelves, crouched and examined some titles there.

“Ah, de complete works of Doctor Henry McCoy,” he said, fingering the spines.

“You got an interest in genetics, Remy?” 

“Not particularly, but it beats physics. We can come back later, yeah?”

“Sure, hon. Let’s get some breakfast.” He followed her into the kitchen. “What’re you hungry for?” she asked.

“Coffee’s fine,” he replied. “Usually skip breakfast.”

“Well, you don’t get to skip meals on mah watch,” she informed him. “Have a seat.”

“No, no way. I am not gonna sit here and watch you cook.”

Rogue extended her arms. “This is mah domain!” 

“I’m never introducing you t’my father. He will steal you away.”

“Ah don’t think his wife will like that.”

“He’s not married,” Remy told her. 

“Divorced?” Rogue asked. 

“No, no, ...ah, I don’t actually know what he is, was,” Remy said.

“But...Matilde?” Rogue was confused. 

“Oh, they’re not involved. They’re just...uh. Hm.”

“Partners in crime?” Rogue joked.

“Sure seems dat way,” Remy said to himself. More loudly he said: “If you’re making food, I’m helping. Consider me your more than capable sous chef.”

“Ah’ll just make eggs,” she told him and pulled out the carton from the refrigerator. She picked up a pound of bacon. “Ah suppose Ah should’ve asked you if you ate meat before Ah fed you that sandwich.”

“I won’t say ‘no’ to bacon,” he told her and took the eggs from her hands. 

At the kitchen table, two of the New Mutants were watching them with avid interest. “It’s nearly eight-thirty, you two,” Rogue told them. “Don’t you have somewhere t’be? Like  _ class _ ?”

The pair reluctantly departed. Hank wandered in, staring at a newspaper, mindlessly took a box of granola bars from the pantry and wandered off. Logan entered just as Hank was leaving. “Did I hear someone say ‘bacon’?” he asked.

“No,” Rogue told him. “No, it is not Saturday mornin’, y’all got to fend for yourselves the rest of the week.”

Remy had turned on the vent for the stovetop, found a pan and had thrown half a stick of butter in it. “Might as well cook de whole thing if we’re gonna do a fry up,” he said.

Logan grinned at Rogue. “This kid  _ can  _ talk sense,” he said.

“Remy if you feed this man he will keep comin’ ‘round like a stray cat,” Rogue said to Remy’s back. She removed the toaster from under the cupboard, grabbed the bread from the breadbox.

“Just so happens I like cats,” Remy told her. “Save for de one!”

“Not a feline fan,” she told him.

“Cats are...hm, sleek lookin’, independent, clean.”

“Creepy, aloof, have claws.”

“Cats purr!”

“They crap in a box in your house, too,” Rogue added. “Give me a dog any day.”

“You can have your dog,” Remy told her. “Just keep it away from me. Dogs are no friend to de thief!”

Rogue put sliced bread in the toaster, depressed the button to make toast. Walked over to the second pan on the stovetop and checked on the bacon. “Ah don’t think Ah can trust someone who doesn’t like dogs. Speaks something to your character, Ah think.”

“I urge you not to trust me  _ at all _ , chère. You don’t know what all I can get away with otherwise,” to Logan he asked: “How d’you like your eggs?”

“Cooked by someone else,” Logan answered. He’d been observing the exchange between Remy and Rogue with a bemused smile on his face. When Rogue dropped two pieces of toast on his plate, he raised his eyebrows at her.

“Don’t you even start,” she told him in an undertone. “Ah will send you packin’ so fast.”

“Here’s a man who knows what’s what,” Remy said, oblivious to their exchange as he stood by the noise of the vent. He walked down the length of the counter and deposited eggs onto Logan’s plate.

Rogue handed Remy a mug of coffee. “You need cream and sugah...Sugah?” she asked.

“I’m sweet enough,” he told her, and winked at her over the lip of the mug.

“Aren’t you two just the cutest,” Logan said. “Maybe take your date down to the Danger Room later, Rogue. Work out some of that extra energy you’ve got this mornin’.” 

“D’you want to end up in the lake?” she asked sweetly. “Ah happen t’know you’ll sink like a giant adamantium stone.”

“Danger Room?” Remy asked. 

“Torture chamber,” Rogue quipped. 

“But that’s just a big empty room. Is it so you can relish in de echoing screams of your innocent victims?” Remy asked.

“Are you trying to say you’re innocent? I don’t believe that for a second. It’s a training facility,” Logan explained. “There’s still plenty of screaming going on though.”

“We use it to learn how to use our powers better,” Rogue added. “Sometimes it’s fun.”

“Should I be believin’ it’s ‘ _ fun’  _ from a woman who can’t be bruised, beaten, or blown up?” Remy asked Logan. 

“Ah’ll show him round the sub-sub basement first,” Rogue said. 

“Is that where you keep de jet?”

“How’d you know we had a jet?” Logan asked.

“Lucky guess and confirmed by you.”

“You fly, Rem? Don’t tell me you’re a pilot too,” Rogue asked.

“I’m only half a pilot. Got de bird in de air. Did not stick de landing so much,” Remy told her.

“Don’t let him in the Blackbird,” Logan told Rogue and pointed at Remy, then added as he looked the thief in the eyes: “Don’t  _ touch  _ her!” 

“De Blackbird or...this bird?” Remy nodded at Rogue. 

“Why don’t you bring us the bacon, Remy,” Rogue said pointedly.

“At your service!” he hopped back to the stovetop. “If there’s any trainin’ going on, I’m going to need to get back to my apartment and pick up my stuff.”

“You keep an eye on him,” Logan told Rogue quietly. She nodded.

“Apawrhtmint?” Logan repeated loudly.

“Apor! Apah-- Apare-- My flat!”

Logan chuckled and put a forkful of eggs into his mouth. 

“I don’t hear you makin’ fun of Jean or Besty for not pronouncin’ their R’s!” Remy accused. 

“That’s ‘cause their accents are sexy,” Logan said.

“Oo, oo really naw? What’s that aboot then, eh?” Remy said.

“Hey!” Logan snapped. “I do  _ not _ sound like that!”

Remy dropped bacon on his plate and grinned at him. “Hope y’don’t mind dis here is real U.S. of A. bacon, and not dat crap they got back where you come from!” 

“Hey!” Logan countered again. 

Rogue laughed and made two plates up for herself and Remy. She placed hers on the table with a mug of coffee. From the center of the table, she picked up a sugar jar, dumped several spoonfuls into her mug. “We’ll go inta town and get your stuff after,” she told him. “Then maybe Logan can settle the score with you in the Danger Room.”

Remy said: “Sure, we got nothin’ else to do anyway!”

Rogue smiled. Later they’d discover that they would find plenty to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Absolutely no kissing. Everyone keeps their clothes on. Just some good ole wholesome fall fun... ;-)
> 
> PS, my family is Canadian, so no offense meant to my neighbors to the north. <3 you guys.


	23. Chapter 23

It took an hour to walk from the mansion to Remy's apartment in town. The day was a little blustery, and the last of the leaves were being stripped from the branches above.

"We need t'find you a coat," Rogue told him. "You'll catch your death."

"I got one, don't worry," he told her, shuffling through the leaves on the roadway, his hands in his jeans pockets.

Rogue lifted the collar of her leather jacket. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail to keep her curls from blowing around, but several locks had escaped to float around her face.

"If I get too cold, you can just cuddle up t'me and keep me warm," he suggested.

Rogue considered her options, take his arm or move to the opposite side of the street. She chose the former. "Better?" she asked.

"Feels like I just stepped onto a beach on de Florida panhandle," he told her with a satisfied sigh.

"We shoulda just taken a car," Rogue said.

"Prefer walkin'. Or riding," he grinned down at her. "You ever been on a Harley?"

"Can't say Ah have," she answered. "You ride one?"

"Weh, from coast-to-coast. S'nice, b'cause I have biker friends wherever I go." He extended his left arm downward at a 45-degree angle, made a fist with the index and middle fingers extended but spread apart, and flashed a peace sign. "Peace on de road."

Remy turned her up a gravel driveway leading first to an outbuilding, a garage with an exterior wooden staircase leading up to the second level. Behind that was a small bungalow-style house. An older woman was outside with a rake in her hands. She was short and thin, with an almost pouchy face, long gray and brown hair in a ponytail. She looked up at their approach.

"Mornin' Miz Robin," Remy told her.

"You're three days late with the rent," she said by way of greeting. "It was due on the first."

"Sorry, sorry," he told her. "I got it upstairs, let me go get it." To Rogue he said: "You mind waitin' here?"

She shrugged and said: "Sure."

"You haven't been smoking inside, have you?" Robin asked as he began to depart.

"No ma'am," he told her as he started up the steps. "On my honor."

"You'd best pick up those butts on the ground, then," Robin called. From the doorway, Rogue could see Remy grimace and had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Robin turned her gray gaze to Rogue. "You're new," the woman said.

"Hi, nice t'meet you," Rogue said, and put her hands in her coat pockets. She considered the woman's statement. Did that mean there were "old" visitors? "Remy have people over often?"

"No," Robin said. "Never seen him with anyone. To be honest, I was beginning to wonder about him. Glad to see he brought home a young _lady_."

"Oh," Rogue said, and felt heat come to her face.

"Seen him come and go," Robin continued. "Jogging, bringing home books. Running off into the forest for some reason. I wouldn't normally rent to young kids, they usually trash the place. But he's been quiet. Polite enough. Late with the rent."

"Well, it's not entirely his fault, ma'am," Rogue said. "He...was involved in an accident. Been takin' care of him for a bit."

Robin's unsmiling face looked marginally mollified. "Then he should've said."

"Maybe he didn't want to seem like he was makin' excuses?" Rogue suggested. "Maybe don't mention Ah said anything to you about it?"

"Hmph," Robin commented.

Remy was trotting back down the steps, he'd put his ugly brown coat on. When he reached Robin and Rogue, he extended several fifty-dollar bills in Robin's direction. "I'm afraid I'm a little shy," he told her. "I can make up de difference. If you need somethin' done 'round de house. Raking leaves, mebbe?"

Robin took the money and handed him back a few bills. "You take this. On the condition you stay on another month. I could use the extra money for Christmas gifts for my grandbabies."

Remy reluctantly took the money back. "Y'sure?"

"Pick up those cigarettes and I won't have anything to complain about. You're a good tenant."

"Yes, ma'am," Remy responded, then extended his hand for the rake. "I'll finish up your chorin'."

Robin relinquished her rake to Remy without hesitation. "How about you find the other rake in the garage? I have an extra from when my late husband and I used to do this together." She told Rogue: "Make yourself useful." Robin turned and left.

Once the older woman was out of earshot, Rogue gave Remy a look. "She's nice," Rogue said with a touch of sarcasm.

Remy smiled at her. "Least you know where you stand wit' her. Hard to meet honest folks."

Rogue followed Remy to the garage, where he unlocked and pulled up the garage door with a key hidden behind the outside light. Remy's bike was there, along with an older Buick and all the yard care equipment. They found a second rake. Rogue recovered a blue tarp. "Maybe we can use this?"

"What for?" he asked.

"Put the leaves on it, then drag it over to the woods," Rogue told him.

"Glad I found a partner with experience," Remy told her. "Yard work is not something I've tried b'fore."

"Didn't you ever pull weeds? Mow the lawn growin' up?" Rogue asked.

"If you'd seen where I grew up, you'd realize there was not any hope of maintaining any kind of yard," Remy replied. "Just weeds, wet, and snakes."

Rogue unfolded the tarp and let it float to the grass in a centralized location. Remy handed her the second rake and they got to work pulling the leaves together in a pile. When it seemed the pile was big enough, they dragged the tarp over to the woods, dumped it, and started again.

"Warm enough now," Rogue observed when they finished the second pile. She wiped her forehead with the back of her gloved hand.

Remy just seemed more energetic than before, running with the tarp back to the woods. Rogue had to clean up after him when leaves began trailing behind him. He dumped the leaves onto the first pile, making a tall mountain of yard debris.

"Seen people do dis on the _tee_ -vee," he said and fell backwards into the pile. "Ow. Well, that wasn't as fun as I imagined it would be."

Rogue laughed. "You'd best hope Robin doesn't have a dog, sugah."

Remy sat up, leaves falling from his hair. "Like I'd stay in a place with some mangy canine roaming about." He extended his hand to her. Rogue grasped it to pull him up, but instead found herself being pulled down beside him into the leaves.

"Hey!" she said. "You cut that out!"

"Honestly, I didn't think I'd be able to pull you down, chère. What with you being Hulk-like in strength."

"You surprised me," she said, and tossed a handful of leaves in his face. He retaliated.

"Now quit!" Rogue said, brushing leaves from her hair and shirtfront. "Or we'll have to start all over again!"

Remy flopped back into the leaves, began raising and lowering his legs as if making a snow-angel. With his arms extended, she poked him in the armpit, tickling him. "You're a goofball!" she announced as he laughed.

He stopped, pulled something from his coat pocket. It was a tiny red digital camera. "Look'a here," he said and held the camera above their heads. "Smile pretty."

Rogue looked at the camera, moved slightly closer to where Remy lay propped up on an elbow. "Say _frommage_ ," he told her and depressed the button. He turned the camera over so they could see the view screen on the back.

"Mah hair is a wreck!" Rogue complained.

"Next to mine, looks pretty good, chère," he grinned.

Robin came back outside, the screen door slamming behind her. She was carrying two mugs in her hands. Remy and Rogue extricated themselves from the pile, Remy trying to kick the leaves back into some semblance of order.

"Here you two," she said, and extended to mugs of hot cider in their direction. "This is what me and my Frank used to drink after raking. You go sit up on my porch. Give me those rakes."

"Thank you," Rogue said, and accepted her mug in exchange for the rake.

The woman marched off towards the garage without comment. Remy and Rogue shrugged at one another and made their way to Robin's porch. There was a swinging bench hanging from the underside of the porch ceiling. Remy sat, then Rogue. He nudged the swing to gently rock.

"You still got leaves all over," Rogue told him, trying to brush them off.

"We can go inside after, and I can clean up some," Remy replied, drinking his cider. "This cider ain't bad, but now I'm going to be flyin' high as a kite."

"Sugar rush?"

"It used t'be that I'd always get my candy stole," Remy told her. "On account of me driving everyone crazy if I ate too much. Especially if I ate something red. That's weird, ain't it?"

"Maybe red food coloring has some kinda chemical in it?" Rogue wondered.

Robin returned. "You just put those mugs on the railing when you're done," she said. "Then go fool around somewhere else."

Remy's smile was very bright. "Absolutely!"

Rogue nudged him in the side with her elbow. Remy laughed and Robin shook her head and returned to the house. They obediently placed their empty mugs on the railing then started towards Remy's apartment. From the apartment doorway, Rogue surveyed the interior. A bed under the dormer to the left, looking like a tent under the sloped ceiling, the walls framing it along three sides. A small table and two chairs in the kitchenette, tiny counter with a sink, two-burner stove top, and small refrigerator. On the right, the back of a brown checkered couch which sat facing a coffee table covered in rolls and reams of paper. A television sat on a small stand. There was a window in the dormer, along the door-side wall, and behind the television. A door past the kitchen presumably led to a bathroom. After hanging his coat on a hook on the wall, Remy headed towards the bed, leaving Rogue in the middle of the room, flanked one side by the bed, one side by the couch. Rogue likewise hung up her coat.

Remy lifted the corner of his mattress, retrieved an envelope, and returned a portion of the money to it.

"You don't seriously keep your money in the mattress, do you?" Rogue asked and walked towards him.

"'Course, where else I'd keep it?"

"A bank, for starters," Rogue suggested.

"I don't trust banks," he told her. "Nothin' but a shell game for rich folks to hide their money in. Offshore accounts hiding their dirty gains. Money launderers for drug cartels, crimelords and terrorists!" His volume increased as he spoke.

"The teller at our local branch is perfectly nice," Rogue told him.

"Now who's keepin' company with criminals!" Remy announced and sat on the end of the bed.

"What in the world put you in the mind that banks are criminal operations?" she asked, and tentatively sat beside him.

"From de company I didn't choose to keep," Remy replied. "CEOs and board members of Lehman Brothers, Deutsche Bank. Big ole scam. I highly suggest you divest yourself of any real estate investments for de foreseeable future."

Rogue considered him. He wasn't looking at her, and his expression was quite angry. She saw his hands were resting on either side of him on the mattress, fisted in the bedclothes. Rogue put her hand over the one nearest her. "We don't have to talk about it," she said, though she was desperate to know why he was hobnobbing with bank executives.

His expression softened and he turned to look at her. The look of gratitude on his face assuaged her curiosity. She reached up to pick a twig from his hair. Spontaneously, she kissed him on the corner of his mouth.

Remy grinned. "You ever kiss anyone before me?" he asked.

"Is that your way of sayin' I'm an amateur kisser?" she responded.

"I think you're a natural, chère," he told her. "But you're welcome to keep practicing on me if you like."

She glanced away, but then returned her gaze to his dark one. "Maybe," she said. "Ah have kissed a few. Usually, to borrow and use someone else's powers and abilities."

"Smoochin' on Logan then?" he suggested with a mischievous smile that deepened his dimple.

Rogue scoffed. "Ah can't believe-ugh! Yes, alright!"

Remy laughed quietly. "But as a friend. You don't have a boyfriend?"

Rogue shook her head. "Ah mean...one time Ah thought Ah could have a relationship. But realized, given how Ah am...anyway, even if it was possible, Ah didn't think Ah deserved one."

"Don't deserve one? Why would you think that, chère? Not everyone has relationships where they get t'touch each other. Long-distance, separation for whatever reason, sickness. Doesn't mean you got to deny yourself companionship."

_yes, why don't you tell him why you don't deserve anyone, rogue,_ Carol said. _and spare him your sob-story about cody. tell him the real reason._

"Ah just don't want to hurt anyone again," Rogue said quietly.

He watched her for a long moment. "We don't got to talk about that either," he finally said. "But, it was the same for me, avoiding people after my powers started going haywire. Hiding in the desert, then the woods. Only sticking to places where I felt calm. But then going to have a burger or watch a game...something inevitably would happen and I find himself out of control again. Felt like I was going to just be alone for the rest of my life."

"At least things seem under control for you now, sugah," she told him, smiled sadly. "Ah'm glad for you."

"How about we do an experiment. You test your willingness to touch, and I test my ability to not get all wound up?"

"After what happened last time?" Rogue asked. "Ah think Robin won't take too kindly to me blowing a hole in her roof.

"I don't think it'll happen again," Remy told her. "It was like you were joined t'me when my powers kicked back on. Set up some kinda circuit. Now I can turn it off. Watch." He mimed pulling a cord in the air. "On...off...on...off." With every 'on' he began to glow. Rogue looked away, blinking stars from her eyes.

She laughed. "Okay, you can stop with the demonstration," she shielded her eyes.

He flopped back onto the mattress, folded his hands behind his head. "I'm a willing victim. I won't fight back," he told her. "Do your worst. But make it good." He closed his eyes, apparently in anticipation.

Rogue considered his face for a moment. After several heartbeats, he raised his eyebrows as if to say: _Well_...? Rogue exhaled a nervous breath, leaned over him and kissed him on his mouth gently. He remained immobile. She tried again, and she could feel his smile under her lips.

"Alright sugah," she told him. "It's like kissin' a dead fish. Maybe you can kiss me back a _bit_."

One of his eyes opened to regard her. "As you wish," he told her.

She leaned over him, her mouth a hair's breadth from his. She let out a nervous breathy giggle and he laughed too. "Okay, here goes," she said, smiling. Her lips caught his, and his lips softly parted to return her kiss. She lingered on his lower lip, then kissed him fully again. Her hand rested on his chest, she could feel his heart beating through his shirt. His stubble rasped against her upper lip and chin. She broke their kiss to rub her lips against his cheek, just beside the corner of his mouth, to feel the contrast of sharp and soft. It was a novelty.

"Mebbe I should attempt a razor?" he asked.

"No, Ah like it," she said, and pressed her mouth to his some more. She felt her belly flutter when she touched the tip of her tongue to his lower lip. He made a small sound that set her on fire. Rogue withdrew with a shaky breath.

His eyes blinked back open to regard her. "Not bad for an amateur. Think you're ready for de Minor Leagues yet?"

"You're in the Big Leagues, Ah suppose. How many people have _you_ kissed?" she asked in a mock accusing tone.

"Lots and lots," he whispered, his smile sly. "Try to keep in de game."

"Very funny," she said against his mouth. "Maybe I should bench you?"

"Maybe you should take off these mitts?" he asked and gently touched the back of her gloved hand.

Rogue sat up, considered her gloved hands. She pulled one glove off, then the other. She'd done a lot of damage with these hands. She turned back to Remy. He was observing her in silence, but then closed his eyes again. Rogue reached out and ran a fingertip over his upper lip, let it trail over his cheekbone. His nose wrinkled.

"You're ticklin' me," he said.

She traced the line of his nose. "Someone break your nose, sugah?"

"Yeah, me," he said, eyes closed and smiling at the memory.

"How'd you manage that?" she asked and ran her index finger over one of his eyebrows.

"Mm, I was mebbe about ten at de time, was building a treefort wit' my friend. She was up on de platform, I was down on de ground. She needed a hammer, so I thought I'd loop it inta this pulley thing we had. Started hauling it up, and de thing inverted and fell right on my face, claw part first."

"Oh, that must've hurt," she winced in sympathy.

"Quite a lot of blood," he told her. "Two black eyes...blacker anyway."

She finished tracing the planes of his face. Rogue ran her hand through his thick hair, then swept her hand down the side of his neck and onto his chest. She saw that his shirt was hiked up, a few inches of skin between his shirt hem and jeans were exposed, revealing an inch or two above and below his navel. She touched her fingers to the exposed skin and he drew in a breath, stomach sucking away from her touch.

"You okay?" she asked, snatching her hand back.

"Your hands are cold," he said.

"Your body is hot," she replied.

"You're not de first to observe dis," he said. Rogue sat up and chaffed her hands together, and kneeling beside him on the mattress, put both hands on his stomach.

He made a humming sound in his throat. Rogue pushed her hands up inside of his shirt. "You feel tingly," she said. "Like sliding through a plastic tube slide on a playground."

"You feel nice," he murmured. "Who'da thought someone who could bend steel girders could touch so gentle?" He looked up at her then. Sat up slightly and removed his shirt.

Presented with a significant portion of exposed bare skin, Rogue hesitated, then ran her hands over his shoulders and chest, slid down his toned arms. "Do a lot of upper-body at the gym, sugah?"

He laughed. "I run on occasion too, but yeah, you can say I might spend a lot of time climbin' ropes and tossin' things about."

"Like candy bars?" she teased and let her fingers bump down the muscles of his abdomen.

"I was lookin' forward to my trick-or-treat, but you were so cute in your little costume," he said. He held out his hand to her.

Rogue took it in her own, then guided his palm to cup her face. He had narrow, almost elegant hands. She let his fingers leave tingling trails down her cheek, then across her lips. Remy let out a shaky sigh. She led his hand down the column of her throat. She was wearing a gray tank top under an oversized mustard and brown checkered flannel, shirttails tied at her waist. Rogue released his hand to untie her shirt, slip it off her shoulders, exposing her bare arms. He turned onto his side, sat up to face her.

She took both of his hands in her opposite, first one then the other. "Touch me here," she told him and placed one of his hands onto her left shoulder, the other on her right.

His hands slid slowly down her arms to her hands, then back up. She shivered. Her own hands moved to the hem of her tank, she lifted it over her head as she turned away from him. Gathering her hair in one hand, she pulled her ponytail over her shoulder to expose the back of her neck. "And here," she directed, pointing to her nape.

When his fingers touched her hairline, she felt her shoulders bunch up around her ears. Remy paused, but didn't take his hand away. Rogue forced herself to relax, lowering her shoulders with a deep exhale. His hand trailed down the back of her neck, then back up to her hairline. A finger ran from behind her earlobe and down the side of her neck. Ticklish almost, and raising the hairs on her neck, making her flesh pebble with goosebumps. That was strange, she normally didn't get them from being cold. Another novel experience.

"Move lower," she said softly, thinking of when he'd directed her to scratch his back. Remy's warm hands brushed over her shoulders, then across her shoulder blades. It was definitely ticklish when she felt his fingers brush the backs of her biceps. She hugged her arms closer to herself. She did not like being tickled. Kurt had tried, and she hated the feeling of him sneaking up on her to touch her unasked, then the loss of control she felt at the involuntary spasm as she recoiled from his tickling tail. She'd thrown him in the lake after that.

"Ticklish?" Remy asked quietly.

She nodded. "Please don't," she said.

She felt him shift behind her and she tensed. "I won't touch you anywhere unless you tell me to."

Rogue relaxed, or as much as she could while at the same time feeling so aroused. "Go lower," she said again and his hands came to the small of her back, tracing circles and shapes with his fingertips. This was also very tickly, but not in a 'ah, I'm about to wet my pants!' kind of way. This tickling did something to make a warm, heated weight rest between her legs. She swallowed nervously as his hands traced the waistline of her jeans. Rogue thought they'd better stop, but instead she took one of his hands in her own, guided him closer until she could feel the heat of his front against her back. She took his arm under hers, put his hand against her neck and slid it down her throat, across her clavicle, then to the top of one breast. She pressed his hand against one of the cups of her bra and drew in a sharp breath. Even though the fabric, she could feel herself respond. She could hear him respond as well, feel his breath on the back of her neck. Rogue released his hand, turned to face him.

His face was very close to hers. She touched his cheek with her fingertips, kissed him again. "Thanks for that," she whispered.

"Happy to be of service, mademoiselle," he said and smiled.

Facing front to front, Rogue realized his arousal was more evident than her own. She felt her face redden while at the same time felt as if she'd achieved some great accomplishment. That she'd made him feel as she did. "Now your turn," she said.

"I thought I was already having all de fun," he replied.

"Lay on your stomach," he told him.

"Awright," he said and toed his shoes from his feet. He skootched up onto the mattress, then lay face-down. Rogue clambered over him and straddled the backs of his thighs.

"Are you gonna scratch my back for me again?" he asked, voice half-muffled by the pillow.

"No," she said and applied her hands firmly to his shoulders.

"Oof," he said.

Rogue took her hands away. "Did Ah hurt ya?"

He shook his head. "Naw, just the opposite." Rogue resumed putting pressure into the muscles on his back. He told her: "Been awhile since anyone touched me other than to beat the ever livin' daylights outta me."

"You been startin' fights, sugah?" she asked, pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. He made a moaning sound into the pillow and Rogue sucked in her breath, feeling the sound of his voice tug something between her legs.

"I don't usually start fights," he said into the pillow. "I only fight if someone's backed me inta a corner and I'm tryin' to get away. Why fight when I can talk my way out?"

She continued her downward trajectory, pressing her thumbs under his shoulder blades. There was a scar, a raised line on his back that went from shoulder to hip. "Someone hit ya, sugah?" she asked.

"Is that still there?" he asked. "You'da thought my broke nose and scars woulda cleared up after I blew myself t'pieces. Guess I must just be used t'them being a part of me."

"Who hit ya?" she asked.

He didn't answer for a long time. "Dis crazy woman," he finally said. "Though I might've provoked her."

"Thought you'd preferred talkin' over fightin'?" Rogue asked.

"She didn't like somethin' I'd said," he responded.

"An ex-girlfriend?" Rogue asked, and felt his body tense beneath hers.

"No," he said flatly. "I did not want t'be anywhere near de woman."

"Ah'm sorry, sugah," she told him. "Just relax, I don't want to wind you up now. You're supposed t'be practicing calm, right?"

"Might need your help wit' dat," he said softly.

"How's this?" she said, leaning over him, pressing her weight into a knot in his shoulder.

"Hmmmmph," he groaned. "Don't stop."

She continued her process until she heard him sigh. "Better?" she asked.

"Mnh-hm."

"Not like you to be outta words," she said, teasing. He shifted beneath her and she lifted herself onto her knees. He turned over. Now she was straddling the front of his thighs.

"I like de way you touch, chère," he said. The light from the window above was mid-afternoon bright. It fell across his face and chest.

She fingered the mark in the middle of his chest, like a diamond-shaped scar. "Ah like the way you feel," she told him.

"You must be one of them steel magnolias," he told her. "Soft on de inside, but hard as nails on de out. Or mebbe the other way around?"

Her eyes flicked up to his face. "You didn't watch that sappy movie, did ya?" she asked, a slow smile on her face.

He nodded. "When I saw you in that Dolly shirt in de library, thought I'd better revisit the woman's entire _oeuvre_. Albums, movies. I got that and _9-to-5_ over there from de library. Probably have a huge overdue fine by now."

Rogue glanced back at the television set. There was a VCR and two cassettes on the TV stand. She smiled.

"You wanna watch?" he asked. "I don't mind watchin' it again."

"Alright," she said and reluctantly climbed off of him. She claimed her tank top from the floor and put it back on. Remy sat up too, but neglected his shirt. He ambled over to the VCR, pushed a tape into the slot and pressed 'play.'

"You want something t'drink?" he asked her. "On tap, I got all de finest well-water a man could buy."

"Sure, sugah, that sounds nice," Rogue sat in the center of the couch, watching the FBI warning appear on the screen. She looked down at all the documents cast about on the coffee table. She recognized a photo of the X-Mansion as seen from above, she'd seen it quite often from that vantage point. Rogue pushed aside papers, found articles and floorplans.

"Where'd you get all this?" she asked, feeling nervous.

Remy placed a glass of water on top of a newspaper article about the School.

"Library," he answered. "Archives, county auditor, newspaper, de Internets."

"Are you for real?" she asked.

"I have my sources," he said smugly. "All honestly come by. 'Cept for me grillin' you on de house inhabitants. I hope you believe I regret doin' that." He sipped his water, sat beside her on the couch to lean against the armrest. One of his arms lay across the back of the couch. "This okay?" he asked and raised his free hand.

Rogue nodded and sat back against the cushions. She could feel the heat of his arm behind her against the back of her neck and shoulders. As the opening credits began to play, she relaxed further, let herself rest half into the space between his arm and shoulder. "Is this okay?" she asked him.

"C'est bon," he said.

Together they turned to watch the movie. Rogue's stomach was wringing itself into knots with excitement, her heart was beating quite fast. This might be what it was like to have a for-real boyfriend, she thought. It was hard to concentrate on the movie, which she had seen several times already. They were at the part of the movie where Sally Field's character was demanding in tearful outrage to know why her daughter had died. The intensely sad moment was broken by the laughter of friendship. Rogue blinked at her tears, she glanced up at Remy to see his reaction.

Remy pointed at the screen then and she turned her gaze away from the side of his face to look. He said: "Dis de best line of de whole film."

Dolly's character, Truvey Jones said: " _Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The Doctor will see you now.


	24. Chapter 24

Remy was in the formal library trying his hardest not to think about Rogue. The variety of genetics books he'd pulled from the shelves should have given him plenty to think about, but his thoughts kept straying back to her. Never had he felt such an instantaneous attraction to someone, like a lightning bolt hitting him directly in the top of the skull, blasting all coherent thought from his head. For all the sexual gymnastics he'd gotten himself into over the years, never had he done so little physically and felt so intensely aroused. She had forced him to slow down, wait for her to take the lead. It was a new kind of torture, one he was willing to submit to. Rather than be forced. Candra never gave him a choice in the matter, whereas he could stop Rogue anytime.

Not that he wanted her to stop.

She was gorgeous, of course. She was kind-hearted; he watched her put others' needs before her own. She was quick with a retort; she wasn't going to let Remy get away with _anything_. She spoke her mind; he never doubted a word out of her mouth. Did he mention she was the most beautiful woman in the world? Also that. A tiny worm of guilt twisted in his heart. He should not be falling for some girl, not with the woman he loved back home, the one he'd given up. He made excuses to himself for the other women he'd been with, he didn't care a whit about them. Rogue was different though, he cared what she thought...about _him_.

With a distracted sound, Remy flicked through the endnotes of another book. The Black Womb Project was nowhere to be found. He sighed in frustration. He would have to talk to Doc McCoy. He hoped he'd get an answer that made sense.

He was sitting on the floor in front of the shelves and realized he must have been hidden from view as he was behind a leather chair. He heard noises from the foyer; there were several repairmen fixing the nearby office, patching the ceiling. The house inhabitants had made themselves scarce with the construction crew being there, so it was a surprise when he heard voices he recognized. The quartet entered the library and closed the doors, muffling the sounds of hammering and drilling from outside.

"Warren wants to go," Scott told them. "To be transferred to a private hospital in the City."

"He can't get better care than what he'd get here," Bobby responded.

Hank explained: "He's having a hard time coming to terms...with the fact that the person who caused the explosion..is still in residence."

Remy purposely dropped a book, alerting them to his presence. He was feeling a rising swell of hot shame and didn't want to hear anymore.

The four members of X-Factor fell silent. Remy unfolded himself from his spot on the floor. "My ears are burnin'," he told them. "I'll be off."

Jean shook her head, seemingly frustrated with herself. "I'm sorry if we made you feel uncomfortable."

"I can't blame Angel for his reaction," Remy said, walking towards the quartet, a book still in his hand. "I'll make myself scarce."

Hank noticed the book in Remy's hand. "Ah, a fan?" he smiled slightly.

Remy proffered the book in his direction. "Dis is certainly better than de article...what was it called? ' _Real World Applications of Mutant Classifications: A Quartet of Case Studies_?'"

Hank looked somewhat embarrassed. "Not my best work," he said. "It was my first article. I was just a whippersnapper back then."

Remy grinned at him. "You're only twenty-seven now. Can't say I could've written anything coherent at de age of eighteen."

"How old are you now?" Bobby asked, almost a challenge.

"Twenty-one," Remy replied, looking Bobby over. 'Cute Boy' indeed.

"So, a visit to Harry's is in order," Hank said and put a hand on Remy's shoulder. "For a cold beer, on me."

"I may take you up on dat. I know you got to talk about your friend's care, if there's somethin' I can do. I know a spiritual healer..."

"That's kind of you," Jean said, held up her hand. "I just wonder if he'd be willing to accept the help."

Remy nodded. "I'll let you get back to your talk. But, I got a question if you got a sec, Doc," Remy reached into his back pocket. "Your article mentions dis study...I found it, but I can't find any mention of it anywhere else."

Hank took the proffered paper, the title page from the study, it had been folded into quarters. Unfolding it, Hank looked at the title. "Ah, yes. Project: Black Womb. Quite hard to come by. Professor Charles Xavier introduced me to it."

"Does de prof know who dese others are?" Remy pointed to the author's names. "Aside from his dad? Is Brian Xavier still alive?"

Hank shook his head. "No...and I'm not sure about the others. Amanda Mueller, Nathan Millbury…"

"Millbury?" Scott paused. "We have a neighbor in Anchorage with the same name, Nate Millbury."

"It must be a common name," McCoy said. "Which will only make it harder for you to find your author, Remy."

"How about dis one," Remy said and pointed to the footnote below the study's abstract. "Irene Adler?"

"Well, that _is_ an uncommon name," Hank began. "It's the same-."

Remy felt a sudden pain in his right eye. He clapped a hand over it with a short exclamation of pain.

"Are you all right?" Scott asked.

"A headache-came on alla sudden," Remy said, blinking his eyes. His vision was blurred.

"Maybe a migraine?" Scott continued. "You should probably go lay down. It will only get worse."

Remy shook his head, then regretted it. He felt as if he would be sick. There was something pushing up against his...aura?...the flow of energy surrounding him. The doors to the library were pulled open. Magnus was on the other side.

"Oh, well dat explains dat," Remy said, his headache suddenly lessening.

"I thought I...sensed you in here," Magnus said.

_Okay, so our repelling forces are a two-way street. Good to know._ Remy carefully "urged" Magnus out of his personal space.

The man squinted at him, but held his ground. "Your _uncle,_ so-called by you, has made an appearance," he said. "In the sitting room."

"He must've received his owl," Remy said.

The other five mutants stared at him blankly.

"Okay, you're right, ravens are probably his preferred mode of communique," Remy shrugged.

"Oh right!" Bobby said. " _A Game of Thrones!_ "

"So someone reads around here!" Remy smiled at the Cute Boy.

"Enough," Magnus said. "The parlor. Now." He turned and led the way.

Remy met Scott's visored gaze for a moment. The other man shook his head and his mouth compressed into a line. The only visible sign of disapproval he would betray.

At the parlor doors, Magnus brought the others save for Hank and Remy up short. "I daresay we have no need for an audience," he told Bobby, Jean, and Scott.

"I might agree wit' de headmaster here," he said to them apologetically. "I don't really want to get a chewing out in front of y'all."

"Scream if you need anything," Scott said dryly. Remy chuckled at that.

Shepherding Remy and Hank into the parlor, Magnus used his powers to pull the pocket doors closed. It was as he'd said, Dr. Stephen Strange was standing before the picture window, silhouetted against the cool November daylight. A look of surprise crossed his otherwise austere features.

"Remy," he began. "What _are_ you doing here?"

"Funny story, that," Remy said evasively.

Hank walked forward to take Dr. Strange's hand. "It's good to see you, my friend," the blue-furred mutant told the Sorcerer.

"What a...strange circumstance, to bring us together," Dr. Strange said.

"Strange," Remy remarked to Magnus. "Notice de use of 'strange' and 'circumstance.' Not to be confused with irony."

Magnus glared at him.

"Monsieur Gambit has been our guest...has it been a week yet?" Hank asked.

"Thereabouts," Remy concurred.

Dr. Strange shook his head. "You do not belong here," he said gravely. "It is not safe."

"'Safe,'" Magnus repeated. "For him, or for us? How do you know this...person?"

Dr. Strange considered Magnus for a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. "I've known Remy since he was...about five years old, if I remember correctly."

When he looked at Remy, Remy shrugged a shoulder. "Thereabouts."

"And what is your relationship?" Magnus asked.

"I consider him...something of a _ward_ ," Strange replied.

"Ha ha, I see what you did there," Remy smiled.

"His father and I are well-acquainted," Strange told the two other mutants. "They've frequently procured items for my Sanctum Sanctorum."

"Thieves are in your employ?" Magnus asked, disapproval apparent.

To Remy, Strange said: "Speaking of your father..."

_Oh no, here comes,_ Remy thought.

"He is most concerned," Strange continued. "About your welfare. You should return home."

Remy shook his head obstinately. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Don't tell him where I'm at, either."

Dr. Strange briefly closed his eyes with impatience. "If you think your father is unaware of your location…"

"Enh! Well, he can come fetch me then, can't he!" Remy snapped.

"He regrets attempting to contact you earlier, when you were not in...the right frame of mind. He is waiting for you to make the first move, so to speak."

"So, the prodigal son refuses to return home to the father," Magnus mused, almost gloating about Remy's childish behavior.

Remy wished for a vengeful god to strike the man down on the spot. "Do you have your answers?" he asked Magnus waspishly. He gestured at Dr. Strange. "See, he knows me."

"Can you vouch for this man's character?" Magnus asked Strange.

Dr. Strange frowned a bit. "The _man_ , no. The boy he was, yes. Not particularly well-behaved, but not bad. He...definitely has character."

"So half an endorsement," Magnus said. "Seems we can only obtain half of the truth about you."

"Curse-free this time, Remy?" Strange asked.

"It's not like it happens _so_ often," Remy said, holding his arms out to his sides.

"Only five," Strange replied, a vague smile on his lips.

"Four!" Remy retorted.

Strange shook his head. "Five," he insisted.

"Well, what one am I forgetting then?" Remy asked, scratching his head.

"Possibly the Forgetfulness Curse," Strange said, smiling now.

Remy clapped his hand to his forehead. "D'oh! Ah-there goes my record!"

"You're tied with Emil," Strange added.

" _No!_ Not dat joker! Maybe I'll send him a monkey's paw in de mail!"

Strange might have chuckled, shook his head. "Remy, go home."

"Meh," Remy said. "Make me."

A salt-and-pepper colored eyebrow raised in his direction. "Is that a challenge?"

Remy shrank back into his coat. "No, sir. Sorry, sir. Will take your request under advisement, sir."

"If that is all, gentlemen?" Strange asked of Magnus and Hank. "Doctor McCoy, please stay in touch."

"I will," McCoy smiled. "Thank you for stopping by."

"My pleasure."

Embarrassingly enough, Remy was given a warm pat on the shoulders (that might almost be misconstrued as a hug) before the Sorcerer vanished from the parlor.

To Magnus he said: "See? Tole ya so."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: In this corner, our challenger, the Ragin' Cajun, Gambit!...And his opponent, the best he is at what he does, The Wolverine! Let's get ready to ruummbllllle!
> 
> Reference to the Owl Post - More Harry Potter, y'all.


	25. Chapter 25

“What..the...hell…?” Wolverine said as the Danger Room doors slid open to permit his opponent.

“So...what do you think?” Gambit asked as he waltzed in. He stopped and performed a slow turn on his back heel, hands poised like a vogue dancer. “Pretty sharp, non?”

“More like Pretty  _ in Pink, _ ” Wolverine retorted, eyeing Gambit’s unusual uniform. 

“Ooh, finally, a worthy opponent,” Gambit said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, sending forth a flurry of pink-hued sparks. “And I’ll have you know, dis ain’t pink, it’s  _ cerise _ .”

“I’d have said:  _ Barbie _ ,” Wolverine said.

Gambit laughed at that. “Look, mon frѐre, it coordinates with my power signature!” With that he sent a playing card flying over Wolverine’s head where it detonated against the Danger Room’s concussive force-resistant shields harmlessly. 

Wolverine would not be willing to admit that the two colors were of a similar shade. The thief was dressed in a form-fitted black uniform, a bright “cerise” colored chest piece covered his torso, metallic boots with a metallic half-staff strapped to his left thigh. Bright blocks of color down his arms and legs, pockets, from where he’d drawn one of his playing cards. His unruly hair was partially tamed with a mask. 

“Does it have a hand bag to go with it?” Wolverine asked.

Gambit gestured to his ensemble. “This is what those fat cats on Wall Street would describe as a ‘ _ Power Suit _ .’”

“It’s powerful bright. Don’t you think a thief would be better kitted out in black?”

Gambit waved off the suggestion like an annoying bug. “For one: ain’t no one gonna see  _ me  _ coming. And when they see me go, they won’t be forgetting in a hurry. For two: just plain black?  _ Bo _ -ring!”

“Where’s your coat? I think you need it,” Wolverine held up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of Gambit’s new uniform. “If all else fails, I suppose you could just blind your opponent.”

Gambit threw his head back, laughed loudly. “Wolverine, you’re a card. I like you a lot. I haven’t about busted my gut in  _ years _ . I will say, when life don’t give me anything to laugh about, I can always fall back on laughing at my own expense.”

Wolverine allowed himself to grin at the young man. He gave Gambit a clap on the back that sent the kid stumbling.

“Geez, you two,” said a voice from up in the control booth. It was Kitty. “Are you guys going to train, or get married?”

“Hey!” Wolverine snapped while Gambit cackled. 

“No, no judgement, Logan. I like the budding bromance. It’s very positive. Very metro,” Kitty quipped.

From the booth, they could also hear Rogue laughing.

“Everyone here is so damn funny!” Wolverine griped. “Let’s just get on with it!”

“Yes!  _ Get on with it! _ ” Gambit announced in a British accent. He turned to Wolverine. “Just remember when this is all over, no hard feelings, yeah?”

“Feelin’ pretty confident, eh?” Wolverine grinned.

Gambit smiled back in response.

“Okay, Bert and Ernie,” Kitty said. “Timer’s up. Boy-buddy with the most hits wins.”

“What scenario we runnin, kid?” Wolverine asked.

“Spinning platforms!” Kitty declared and the Danger Room began to change shape. 

Both Gambit and Wolverine found themselves rising on a circular platform. All around them, various platforms were springing from the Danger Room floor like so many mushrooms. Gambit continued to laugh as if he were on a tiltawhirl. Wolverine found himself grinning back. Annoying, how infectious Gambit’s attitude was. 

Wolverine might have started a split-second before the timer began. Gambit seemed not to be paying attention, staring up at the platforms as he was. He reacted a moment too late, and as Wolverine dove towards him, he delivered a glancing blow to Gambit’s mid-section. Gambit twisted aside, not taking the full brunt of the hit. Wolverine saw his opponent’s bright eyes flash, a smile still on his lips even as he whispered out a breath of pain. Gambit shook his head slightly and grinned. Wolverine realized Gambit might have taken the blow on purpose, just to see how hard Wolverine would hit. Gambit twirled away to land on the far side of the slowly rotating platform. He paused a moment, then launched himself at Wolverine, going low. Wolverine was prepared, or so he thought. Then it was just as Storm had described, the kid seemed to move incredibly fast, while Wolverine found himself moving just a fraction slower. His legs were wide-spread to maintain balance on the spinning platform. Suddenly, Gambit was swishing beneath him as if sliding into home plate. He momentarily disappeared off the edge of the platform. When Wolverine turned, it was to see Gambit’s booted feet coming back up from beneath the platform to strike him in the chest. 

“One-One,” Kitty said from the booth.

Wolverine staggered backwards, then leapt up and back to land on the platform above. Now he had the higher ground. He beckoned Gambit onward, fingers of his outstretched hand raising in a “come on, then” gesture. Gambit dashed forward, gripped the handholds on the underside of the platform to once again disappear beneath it. The platform suddenly lurched to the side, Gambit’s body weight and momentum causing it to spin faster. He flipped himself onto the platform across from Wolverine, running opposite to the platform’s rotation. He was coming at Wolverine fast, a playing card in either hand. Wolverine leapt and landed hard on the opposite side of the platform, which with a rending creak, canted to the side. With a shout of surprise, Gambit was launched from his feet, then fell to hit the platform and he began to slide towards where Wolverine stood. As the thief slid past, Wolverine seized him by the collar and popped him in the mouth. He then released the kid, and he fell from the platform to land on another, which was quickly rising to meet him. Wolverine heard a very satisfying “woof” come from the thief as he landed hard. Not giving up his advantage, Wolverine leapt to try to land on top of Gambit. The man was rolling out of the way, narrowly missing the brunt of Wolverine’s considerable weight.

Gambit was back on his feet now, his staff snapped into one piece, telescoping out to its full length. He spun it in a tight arc, Wolverine could hear it snap still in the thief’s grip. Gambit feinted, dashed back in the opposite direction, executed a tight pirouette and swung his staff at Wolverine’s head. Wolverine heard the staff whisper over his skull. The maneuver was not complete, Gambit had raised it to bring the staff downwards. Wolverine raised his fists, unleashed his claws, caught the staff between them. Ripping his claws apart with a sharp ring of metal on metal, the staff was reduced to two longer pieces and several small bits rained down onto the platform with a clatter. 

Gambit actually looked pissed then, looking at the fragment of his broken staff he still held. With an aggravated grunt, he sent it flying end over end in Wolverine’s direction. Wolverine ducked, then raised up, only to hear the sound of the staff striking the platform behind him. Too late, the staff had rebounded and was returning to its master to crack Wolverine in the back of the skull. 

“Two-two,” Kitty said. 

Wolverine growled. Gambit leapt over him to gain the advantage of a higher venue, snagging the other half of his staff from the ground as he swished past Wolverine’s swinging claws. 

Wolverine was hot on his tail, leaping upwards a second after Gambit had landed on the platform. Gambit spun, twirled his broken staff over his head, then brought the sharp pointed end down into the center of the platform. A burst of pink-white energy flowed from the end of the staff to light up the platform. Wolverine leapt straight up, narrowly missing getting his feet taken out from beneath him. Gambit backflipped to the edge of the platform, now the highest point in the Danger Room, and launched himself to fly from the ledge backwards like an Olympic diver. He was plummeting several stories downward, head-first. Wolverine saw him momentarily vanish out of thin air not a moment before hitting the ground. Gambit suddenly reappeared on the ground below in a flash of light, standing upright, though he staggered backwards a pace or two. He looked down at himself, held his hands before him in wonder. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “I actually did it! And my clothes stayed on dis time!” Gambit seemed pleased as punch. 

Wolverine leapt, wind whistling past as he fell. He landed on the ground with a force that crumpled the ground beneath him. He let out a small grunt. 

“Didn’t dat hurt?” Gambit asked, seemingly concerned. 

“Yes,” Wolverine said and charged. Gambit rushed forward too. Not to fall for this trick a second time, Wolverine made sure to grab Gambit by his chest piece, one hand at his collar and other at his lower abdomen. Wolverine used Gambit’s momentum to swing him around. He released him, and the kid went flying backwards into a platform pillar. He hit it sideways, his lanky form momentarily wrapping backwards against the pillar, then fell to his side in a crumpled heap. Gambit did not get up. 

“Logan!” Rogue cried a reprimand from the booth.

“Honeymoon must be over,” Kitty added. 

Now concerned, Wolverine paced forward. Gambit was righting himself, his hand pressed to the floor to boost himself into an upright position. Leaning back against the pillar, his head down and hair falling over his face, Gambit pointed a finger at Logan.

The timer clicked to zero and an alarm sounded. The score: Wolverine: 3, Gambit: 2.

Wolverine stopped in his tracks, and Gambit pointed downward. Wolverine saw a playing card tucked behind his belt buckle. It was glowing softly. 

“Bang, you dead,” Gambit said, and cocked his thumb and finger as if shooting Wolverine with a gun. 

Wolverine’s buckle exploded and he flew backwards. 

He was picking himself up off the ground when Rogue flew into the room. “Logan, Ah’m gonna beat your butt!” she shouted. “He hardly weighs even half what you do!” 

“I’m all right, chère,” Gambit told her, as he climbed to his feet. “No harm, no foul.”

“Says you!” Wolverine snapped. He pointed at his ruined uniform. “This was after the buzzer!”

“Mistimed de delay,” Gambit grinned in a way that told Wolverine he did not mistime anything. “Seems t’me someone might’ve jumped de gun, yeah? Shouldn’t that be an automatic disqualification?”

Kitty had appeared through the wall. “Hm, we’ll have to watch the replay,” she said.

“Ganging up on me, I see how it goes! Everyone  _ loves  _ the new guy!” Wolverine complained.

Gambit was walking towards him now, laughing again. “A new ensemble in your future, mon ami. Maybe I can help? I see you, a vision in yellow…maybe some blue. Like Beauty and de Beast, rolled inta one,” here he swept his hand in the air, and looked into the distance, as if imagining an amazing panorama. “ _ Tale as old as time _ …”

“I’m going to kick you right into the future, pretty boy! Say, sometime next week?” 

“Gotta catch me first, slow poke,” Gambit countered. He pulled his mask off, sweaty hair fell into his face. “Hey, it’s been awhile since I broke a sweat. Thanks for that!”

“Why don’t you hit the showers, sugah?” Rogue hooked a thumb over her shoulder to the locker room entry. “Y’aint feelin’ sore, are ya? You hit that pillar pretty hard.”

“Sure you can help me out wit’ dat, chère,” he said, giving her a wink as he passed. 

Wolverine saw Rogue’s face flush, and not from embarrassment. Her eyes were bright and she might have winked back. 

_ Hunh,  _ Logan thought. He studied Rogue carefully. The doors to the locker rooms opened and closed, and Gambit was gone.

“So…” Logan said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re gettin’ pretty friendly with the Cajun.”

Kitty’s eyes lit up. Rogue fared her with a look that said: ‘Don’t start.’ 

“What’s it to ya?” Rogue asked in a blasé tone.

Logan held up his hands defensively. “Nope, nothing. Just sayin’. It’s good, you stickin’ to him. Make sure he doesn’t get himself into any more trouble. You like him, he likes you. For all his dislike of dogs, he’s followin’ you around like a lovesick puppy.”

Rogue’s posture relaxed. 

“But you hardly know the guy. Don’t take him too serious,” Logan added. “Seems like a bit of a player.”

“Ah can see that for myself,” she snipped. “Ah ain’t stupid!” 

“I didn’t say you were. Don’t want you to get hurt, is all, darlin’,” Wolverine told her warmly.

“Don’t you worry about me. Gettin’ hurt is better than feelin’ nothin’ at all!” 

“Rogue, don’t you ever sell yourself short. You deserve the best, don’t forget that. Don’t settle for anything less than what you actually want.”

“Ah know what Ah want, that’s never been clearer to me!” with that, Rogue sashayed out the main door.

Kitty grinned. “ _ Rogue and Gambit sitting in a tree _ \---!”

“Cut it out, half-pint!”

Logan found Remy standing under the spray of one of the showers, looking as though he was about to make love with the showerhead. “De water stays hot! It’s a God-given miracle!” he said, his voice echoing.

Logan pulled off his destroyed uniform, tossed it into the bin where all ruined uniforms went to die. He marched into the shower area, pulled the faucet on. “You ever stop talking?” he asked conversationally.

“Nope,” Remy said, rubbing his head with a bar of soap. “Not even in my sleep.”

Logan eyed him, looking to see if he’d done the kid any significant damage. Other than a scar on his back, he seemed unhurt. “Seems like you can take a beating pretty good,” Logan observed. 

Remy smiled at him from under the veil of his overlong hair, now plastered to his skull. “That was a beating? Pshaw! Love tap, more like. Rogue was right, it was fun. Pretty mad at you for splittin’ up my staff though.”

“We can get you a new one,” Logan said. “Maybe out of something a little more indestructible.”

“Oo, like vibranium?” Remy said, instantly brightening. “I’d like to get my hands on some of dat! Imagine de boom I could make!”

“Maybe not. Bit out of your price range, I’d say.”

Remy laughed. “Caviar dreams on a Taco Bell budget!”

Logan shook his head, laughed as well. “Save some of your cash for a haircut, kid.”

“Mebbe get an up-do like you?” Remy sauntered back into the locker area. 

“Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?”

“‘ _ I bet you think that's pretty clever, don't you boy...? Flying on your motorcycle...Watching all the ground beneath you drop _ .’” Vaguely haunting tune, hanging in the echoing space, sung flat in a smoke-stained voice. Remy was standing in front of the mirror now, toweling his head dry.

Logan twisted off the flow from the shower, claimed a towel from near the shower exit.

“You coulda cleaned my clock,” Logan told him. “You held back.”

Remy watched Logan’s reflection in the mirror. “Nah.”

“Hank would disagree. Says you’re some kind of --.”

Remy shook his head. “I don’t trust myself with that kind of power. Staring into de abyss of a thousand realities had me comin’ back a few cards short of a deck. It’s not worth my sanity to kick your keister around th’Danger Room.”

“I can see your point.”

“Who needs dis?” Remy said quietly to his reflection, touching the scar on his chest. “Some kinda crazy power. For what? What’s some no-goodnik thief got to do with dis?”

“I’ll tell you what I told Rogue, don’t sell yourself short.”

“Comes wit’ a cost, this. Sanity, humanity, spiritual and emotional well-being.”

Logan sat on a bench, waist wrapped in a towel. He considered the kid carefully. “You’re smarter than you let on.”

“Don’t be givin’ me any credit. Done some pretty dumb stuff. Probably will do a lot more. Best if I had dis cut outta me before I take out de planet.”

“Can’t go choppin’ out pieces of who you are,” Logan said.

“What if dis  _ isn’t  _ who I am. What if I was  _ made  _ dis way?” There was something in Remy’s voice, something like fear. Logan had some idea about that, about _ being created _ rather than just  _ being _ .

“In that case,” Logan announced jocularly, “I think someone missed a step, didn’t read the recipe.”

Remy gave him the briefest of smiles. “Someone forgot to proof my yeast,” he tapped his forehead. “B’fore poppin’ me in de oven.”

“Magneto might know a thing or two about that kind of power,” Logan admitted. “Maybe you ought to bury the hatchet, ask his opinion on the matter.”

Remy shook his head. “Y’think maybe de reason he don’t care for me might be he knows I could take him on? Not top dog now, is he? Least not in de outrageously powerful mutant department.”

“That’s not why.”

Remy raised an eyebrow, still looking at Logan in the mirror. “You got other thoughts?”

“Think it might have something to do with a certain Mississippi Mauler.”

Remy’s eyebrows came together in consternation. “You can’t be serious. He’s...he’s---.”

Logan held up a precautionary finger. “Don’t you dare say ‘old.’ Seeing as how I’ve got quite a few years on the rest of you kids.”

Remy’s mouth pressed into a line. “No ageist, me,” he said. “My daddy’s about in your same boat. De dating scene amongst centenarians is pretty dire.” 

Logan laughed dryly. 

“Been wit’ a woman considerable older than you  _ and  _ my poppa combined. And maybe age is just a number, but let’s just say, there’s a significant generational gap between my POV and  _ hers _ .”

Logan waited him out, thinking the thief would fill in the empty space with more words. 

“You can sit around wanting things to be how they were, or you can get wit’ de times. Go wit’ de flow. S’true a person can be young at heart, but I’m sure if you looked up Mag’s character study, you wouldn’t find “young” or “heart” penned in there. Y’say he’s got a thing for Rogue? I don’t see it. Does she see it?”

“Don’t know,” Logan admitted. “Though Magneto’s power is significant enough, Rogue’s absorption abilities wouldn’t affect him. He’d be immune. And he knows it...she might not.”

“So does he actually care about her, or is dis an idea of him savin’ her for later, like a doll on a glass shelf for him to play wit’?” Remy’s tone was hostile.

“What’s she to you, Cajun?” Logan asked, reasonably.

Remy opened his mouth, then closed it. He regarded himself in the mirror now. “Don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Maybe another diversion.”

“Seems like you could go home now, whenever you wanted.”

“You’re probably right,” he said. He pushed his hair over his shoulder, squinted at his reflection. “Don’t know what I want now, now dat I actually got a choice.” 

Logan was surprised at his candor. Seemed like if he wasn’t in the hot seat, he was perfectly forthcoming. “You gonna put some clothes on, or just keep starin’ at your mug in the mirror?”

Remy smiled again. “Mirror mirror, on de wall. Who’s de cutest boy of all?”

Logan hit him with a wet towel.

“Enh! You’d better not have dried your junk on dis towel!” he cried and ripped it off his head. With an abrupt change of tone, he asked: “So is there a stylist in town?”

“A what?” Logan asked and pulled on his shorts.

“Like a hairdresser?”

“Do you mean a  _ barber?”  _ Logan asked loudly. He shouted to no one: “What is  _ wrong  _ with kids these days!?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sad chapter, much crying. Had to be done to move this story along. Luckily it's short.
> 
> Get on with it! - Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail  
> Tale as old as time - Disney's Beauty and the Beast  
> I bet you think that's pretty clever - Radiohead High & Dry


	26. Chapter 26

A dark pall of grief had fallen over the X-Mansion. The shorter November days were dreary with a chill rain, sky low and dark. Now bare of their leaves, the black skeletal branches of trees grasped at the sky like so many scrabbling fingers. Warren Worthington III had departed the mansion in an ambulance. A few days later, after leaving the NYC hospital on his own, he died aboard a private jet in an apparent suicide. The entire household was stunned, the sadness too profound. But there was worse news yet to come.

Hank made good on his offer to take Remy to Harry’s for a beer. They were joined by Piotr Rasputin. Flanked by the two oversized men, Remy felt pretty confident that no one was going to criticize his hairstyle or clothes. The conversation was stilted and sad, and Piotr and Remy encouraged Hank to talk about his lost friend. Hank wept into his beer. Hank, Scott, and Bobby would be leaving the following day to return to the X-Factor base of operations. They still had their own students to care for. Jean, particularly grief-stricken over the loss of one of her dearest friends, was staying on at the mansion for now. Ororo and Jean had one another for comfort at least, and Jean would serve as a liaison between X-Factor and the X-Men.

When Remy, Hank, and Piotr returned to the School, it was to find the place in turmoil. Scott had hastily departed for the airport. He’d received a phone call from the police in Anchorage, Alaska. His wife Madelyne and their infant son had died, also in a plane crash. Hank and Bobby immediately departed for the City, thinking to talk to the students about the sudden and tragic deaths in their family, the departure of their leader. There was much weeping in the main sitting area. Remy felt waves of nausea, the single beer he’d had at Harry’s was not sitting well at all. Of course, he felt horrible for Scott, but there was also his own gnawing guilt, the abandonment of his own...wife. Hard to think of her as that anymore, given what he’d done these past few years. And what would he do if he came to find out something had happened to her and he wasn’t there? If he could have prevented it somehow, or at least just have been by her side? 

Then there was also the guilt of having contributed to Warren’s death. He’d blown the poor man’s wing off, hadn’t he, the catalyst for his depression? Remy’s instincts told him he should run and hide, but he forced himself into the parlor with the rest of the grieving X-Folks. When Rogue crushed him in a hug, he half felt he’d made the right choice, but then all he could imagine was BellaDonna, like Maddie, destroyed in a tragic accident, and him having failed her utterly.

He sat on the sofa beside Rogue, and she cried into the shoulder of his jacket. “He shoulda been there for her,” she was moaning and Remy felt like he’d rather her stab him in the heart with a knife. “It’s not right, it’s so unfair.  _ It’s just not fair _ !” 

“It coulda been him dead along wit’ them, too,” Remy tried, but his excuse fell flat. “You’re right, it’s not fair. It’s very wrong.”

“Christopher was just a baby!” Rogue moaned. “Poor Maddie. She was  _ all alone _ .”

Remy believed any kind of torture would be less painful than this.

“Ve can pray for them,” Kurt said from the doorway. Kitty was pushing Kurt, seated in a wheelchair, into the room. He was holding a Holy Bible in his hand, his finger marking a place amidst the Book’s pages. 

Kurt considered his selected passage for a moment, then spoke: “This is a prayer, Assurance of God’s Protection, from Book of Psalms, Chapter 91. ‘ _ He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday...If you make the Most High your dwelling...then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone….’Because he loves me,’ says the Lord, ‘I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation _ .’ Amen.”

“Thank you, Kurt,” Kitty said. She had taken a seat beside Piotr, and was holding both his and Kurt’s free hand. 

Jean was on the far side of the sofa, a space between herself and Remy and Rogue. Ororo was seated on the floor in front of Jean, holding the other woman’s hand on her shoulder. Logan was in a desk chair, staring at a blank point in space with his elbows on his knees. He was chewing absently on an unlit cigar. Elisabeth stood leaning against the wall just behind him. Magnus was standing between the doors leading to the kitchen, the rest of the New Mutants clustered to the rear of the sitting room, sprawled on the floor or in chairs, looking despondent. Looking at the senior X-Men in their grief and potentially seeing their future there. 

Feeling like an intruder on the X-Family’s grief, but trapped as he was with Rogue sitting on the hem of his coat and her arms around his waist, Remy hummed to himself nervously, wishing for a cigarette or a deck of cards to busy himself with.

“Ah, so you know ze tune,” Kurt observed. 

“Hm?” Remy glanced over at the elven man.    
  


“On Eagle’s Wings,” Kurt said, and launched into song. Unlike Remy, he had a wider vocal range and could stay in key. “ _ You who dwell in the shelter of the Lord..Who abide in His shadow for life...Say to the Lord, ‘My refuge, my rock in whom I trust!’ And He will raise you up...on eagles' wings...Bear you on...the breath of dawn...Make you to shine like the  _ sun _! And hold you in the palm...of His hand! _ ”

Remy smiled wearily and looked away, staring at the back of the room at nothing in particular. His gaze passed over Magnus, who was looking in his and Rogue’s direction. Remy tunelessly hummed along with Kurt as he began the next verse.

“Y’know, y’can sing along, sugah,” Rogue said quietly.

“Think I’d prefer to lissen dis time, chère,” he said into the white stripe in her hair.

“Ah guess there’s always a first time,” she murmured. Remy let himself smile. 

“Don’t get too used ta it,” he replied. She laughed a little, through tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Gambit makes groceries...and a new friend.


	27. Chapter 27

November, 1997

Then it seemed practically an insult to just up and leave and go back to New Orleans now, Uncle Stephen’s warnings be damned. Remy was  _ perfectly  _ safe here. All the X-Mansion’s science and hi-tech gadgetry would work just as well as any magical wards or mystical spells. The X-Mansion was (nearly) impregnable, unless you were the best thief in the world, and really there was but one Gambit, aka, Remy Étienne LeBeau (and the world could heave a giant breath of relief because one Gambit was plenty). Then it got to be close to Thanksgiving, and no one seemed to be of a mind to cook; even Rogue seemed to struggle. Far be it for Remy to ruin her favorite holiday. He could cook perfectly well, trained as he was at his Tante Mattie’s side since the age at which he could stand at a stool and be trusted not to touch the burners. No, actually it was before he stopped doing that, he had the scars to prove it. 

There was a memorial service for Warren and Maddie and Baby Christopher in the X-Mansion’s tiny cemetery on campus. Remy did not attend that part, but spent his time ordering some of the younger New Mutants around telling them where to put plates and serving dishes and what have you for the post-services meal, then cleaning up the mess they made when someone inevitably spilled or dropped something. Afterwards, Rogue made sounds at him in a fake angry way that he was horning in on her turf. This resulted in a Bake-Off to determine The 1997 Kitchen Master. Rogue won with a stone-fruit pie and did a victory lap around the island counter with much accolades. Later, Logan admitted there was no way Remy was going to take the title, because no one wanted to end up in the lake. It was too cold. Remy was a more graceful loser anyway, having had much experience in this area. He gave up his plans for a seafood-based Thanksgiving spread and volunteered to make groceries with Ororo. 

“I do enjoy this tradition,” Ororo said to him as they walked across the parking lot toward the crowded store. “Of giving thanks with friends and family. But I must protest the addition of animal stock to nearly every dish.”

“I can make you a pan of bread pudding,” he told her. “As long as dairy is acceptable.”

“A locally sourced vendor, perhaps,” Ororo said, smiling at him. They were a similar height, so it was easy to share glances as they walked. “One with humanely raised and handled animals.”

“D’you know how much dat stuff costs?” Remy complained. He looked over at her: “I guess it’s once a year. We won’t break de bank?”

“No, no breaking of banks,” Ororo insisted.

  
  
“I’m not dat kind of---,” Remy began.

Ororo shook her head, which was covered in a knit cap to keep her partially shaved head warm, her elegant neck was wrapped in a scarf. “I am aware,” Ororo said. “I jest only. I should tell you... I was once a thief myself.”

Remy blinked at her. “I thought you were a goddess?” 

Ororo smiled. “No, no, that was...some foolishness,” she laughed at herself. Then, in a somber tone added: “As a young child, I lost my parents in an accident.”

Remy made a sound of sympathy, pulled a stuck shopping cart from the queue. “Sorry, t’hear.”

Ororo nodded her head briefly. “I lived on the streets, in Cairo, picking pockets. Stealing small treasures.”

“Look at dis, we’re thick as thieves.” Remy grinned and together they guided the cart into the mass of shoppers. 

“I had forgotten how crowded the stores were at this time of year,” Ororo observed, with a touch of nervousness.

“Make way! Make way!” Remy announced to the public at large, leading the charge. “Goddess a-comin’ through! A goddess amongst us, y’all! Look away, lest she smite thee!” Some shot Remy a dirty look, but the majority smiled, laughed, and moved aside. Ororo trailed behind, shaking her head in admonishment.

“You are ridiculous,” she said smiling.

“Incorrigible, some might say,” he added. “You can’t have been any kind of thief, padnat! What’d you do,  _ blow  _ their wallets from dey pockets?” 

Ororo produced Remy’s billfold, holding it up as evidence. 

He laughed at her. “More de fool you, I ain’t got nothing to steal!”

Ororo perused the wallet’s contents. Remy tried to snatch it back, but she was too quick. “Is that so?” she asked and fished a photograph from the wallet. It was the one Remy had taken of himself and Rogue in the leaf pile. 

“Bah!” Remy grouched while depositing a huge bag of potatoes into their cart. 

Ororo smiled at the photograph. “How happy the two of you look. Or perhaps, Rogue is slightly vexed, but mostly happy.”

Remy narrowed his eyes at her, attempting a surly look he’d seen on Magnus’ face. 

Ororo laughed. “And who is this?” she had found a second photo hidden where perhaps there should have been credit cards. 

Remy looked away. “That’s my friend,” he said. It was a photo of himself and BellaDonna, standing quite close. Her body pressed his back against a brick wall.

Ororo considered it. “She is quite lovely,” she observed. “It appears you and she are more than...friendly.”

“Well, we started as friends. Things escalated quickly,” Remy said, he cast about the produce section. “Where de yams?  _ I'm all lost in the supermarket, I can no longer shop happily…” _

Ororo recovered an elongated tuber. “These are labeled as yams, but they do not appear as such. I believe the correct name for these are ‘sweet potatoes.’”

“You’re right, chère,” Remy said, taking them from her hands. “Let’s call a yam a yam. And these are better anyway.”

Ororo protested, but he was already wheeling away. 

“This friend of yours…” Ororo persisted.

“Belle.”

“Belle. Will you reunite as friends when you return home? Or continue to escalate?”

“I dunno, Stormy,” he began. 

“Do not call me that,” Ororo said, poking him in the back with his wallet.

He grinned over his shoulder at her for a moment, but his smile dimmed. “I’m pretty sure I ruined my chances wit’ her,” he took his wallet back, glanced at the photo of Belle, then put the billfold back into his coat pocket. “And...not entirely sure about the whole ‘going home’ part.”

They walked in silence for a moment, one or the other grabbing an item for the shopping cart, consulting the lists they’d been assigned. 

“I think if you were willing, you could find a place with us,” Ororo finally said. “You would make a welcome addition.”

Remy shrugged a bit. “Dunno,” he said noncommittally. “Y’know back home, I wasn’t so much welcome. Always de outsider. Then I come here and see how y’all treat each other. Not even related by blood, alla you different, but still family. Think it coulda been better for me. Think I got dealt a bum hand.”

“It was not always so,” Ororo admitted. “We have made a better effort in welcoming all. We have reaped the rewards of our investments, of our trust for their loyalty, friendship. We have placed great trust in other people, who have experienced… and caused...unfortunate events, done significant harm.”

“Understatement.” Remy looked back at her. “Magneto?”

Ororo nodded. “Among others,” but she did not go into further detail. 

“Sounds nice, padnat. I think maybe not all of it is based on trust. I think you might’ve just got lucky.”

“I do believe in good fortune,” Ororo said. “I do believe we have been blessed in many ways.”

“Does dat mean you hope t’get lucky wit’ me?” Remy asked, raising his eyebrows and grinning. Ororo shocked him in the elbow with a tiny static bolt and he yelped.

“Holdin’ a metal cart here!” he said. “Last time I drive your chariot, Your Highness!”

“‘Incorrigible’  _ is  _ a good word,” Ororo said. “I have a feeling I will be using it often.”

“Okay, let’s say I end de sin and shame in which I wallow, follow the fold and stray no more. Join up with de X-Flock. I have one condition.”

“What is that?” Ororo asked guardedly.

“I get t’be on  _ your  _ team, Stormy!”

“Do  _ not  _ call me that!”

“Ow! Y’just cooked my yams!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Darlin' don't you go and cut your hair.
> 
> I'm all lost in the supermarket - The Clash  
> follow the fold and stray no more - Follow The Fold, Guys and Dolls


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this chapter.

November, 1997

“Where are you two off to?” Logan asked. He was standing on the back patio next to Kurt, who was seated on a folding chair to face the sun. It was a chilly day, but the sun was bright. 

“I got t’go inta town to see a man about a horse,” Remy told him from the backyard where he stood in the grass. 

Rogue was standing beside him, dressed in a bright pink puffer coat, a knit headband covering her ears, and winter gloves on her hands. A travel mug of hot coffee was in her hand. Apparently, they were sharing it, because Remy took it from her, took a sip, and grimaced at its over-sweetness. Remy had a knit cap squashed down on his head, but his long coat hung open over a tee shirt and worn jeans. 

“A haws?” Logan repeated.

Remy shot him an annoyed look. “How  _ d’you  _ say it, then?”

“Horse.”

“ _ Whores _ ? Mon frère, we talkin’ ‘bout two different kinds a rides, I think.”

Kurt put a hand over his face, but he was laughing. 

“Okay, not a whores, then,” Remy admitted. “Maybe just a pony.”

“Kid, you gonna start makin’ sense any time soon?”

“Barber’s gonna lop off his locks,” Rogue said, she pouted a little, took Remy’s ponytail in her hand. “Though how we’ll rein him in after---.”

“Very funny,” Remy said and extricated his hair from her grip. “Long past time for a haircut. I’m startin’ t’look like a relic outta de 80s.”

“Ah liked the 80s,” Rogue insisted. 

“You’da been in diapers for most of it, darlin’,” Logan said. 

“Ah like the music!” Rogue announced and sang: “‘ _ Come home... in the morning light,  _ _ mah mama says: "When you gonna live your life ri-i-hight? _ ’” She performed a little dance to go along with the lyrics.

“That’s cute chère, show me dat again,” Remy said. 

Rogue performed her dance once more, with an exaggerated shake of her hips. “You gotta have hips to do moves like this, sugah! And you barely have a butt t’sit on!”

“Dis is de first complaint I’ve heard about my butt,” Remy observed, fished his sunglasses out of his coat pocket and shoved them onto his face. 

“ _ Oh mama dear, we're not the fort-un-ate ones...And girls, they wanna have fu-unn...O-oh girls just wanna have fuhnn! _ ” Rogue was heading towards the path to town, arms outspread and sashaying across the lawn.

“D’you think maybe I’m a bad influence?” Remy asked the other two men while scratching his chin. He deposited the coffee mug on the patio railing.

“I think Rogue seems very happy, and how could that be a bad thing?” Kurt asked, shrugging.

“Ya comin’?” Rogue called. “C’mon, Remy, pick up the pace. We don’t got all day!”

Remy touched two fingers to his forehead and saluted Kurt and Logan. Very lazily he turned on his heel and sauntered after Rogue. “Chère, ain’t you ever heard of stoppin’ t’smell de roses?”

“It’s nearly winter, sugah, there’s not a rose to be sniffed.”

He continued his ambling pace, watching Rogue’s bottom as she bopped along. “I’m just appreciatin’ de view!”

“Ah know a view you’ll like!” Rogue announced, turned, and advanced on him. Too late, he realized she was flying in his direction. 

“Aagh! Put me down!”

“How’s the view from up here?” Rogue asked, having seized him under his arms and lifted him skyward. “Wave bye-bye to Logan and Kurt now!”

“He-elp!” 

“Quit squirmin’, Remy,” Rogue told him and wrapped her arms more securely around his chest. “You don’t want me to drop you, do ya?”

Now squashed against Rogue’s chest, Remy quit flailing. “Well, I guess this ain’t too bad,” he admitted. “Pretty cold though.”

“You coulda buttoned yourself up!” She flew just over the treetops, causing several birds to take flight. Just after the woods, she set Remy on his feet and touched down beside him. His face was bright red from the wind and cold. “Maybe you could use a scarf too.”

“Should probably buy some warmer clothes, if I’m gonna stay in dis freezin’ cold climate.”

Rogue smiled broadly, looking pleased, and took his arm. “C’mon, Ah’ll show you to the salon.”

“Don’t let Logan know where you’re takin’ me, I’ll never hear de end of it.”

They walked down one of the red-brick sidewalks in Salem Center. There was a cluster of shops including a pharmacy, bank, a diner. A small salon/barbershop with a blue, red and white pole hung on the brick facade out front was named Stan’s ‘Shop & Salon. Rogue opened the door and gestured for Remy to precede her. The shop had just opened, so they were the first walk-in customers. 

The barber, an older man with large glasses, a ready smile, and a head of silver and gray hair and moustache to match, seemed hesitant when Remy pulled his hat from his head. “This is...a lot of hair, son. You sure you don’t want to see one of our stylists?”

“Nah,” Remy said, sitting in the barber’s chair. “S’fine. Have at it.”

The barber regarded Remy’s reflection in the mirror. “Well...all right then. Do you think you can take off your shades, friend?”

Remy frowned and glanced over at Rogue. “Sure,” he said, removing his sunglasses. His eyes remained closed. “Okay.”

“Are you afraid to watch?” the barber joked.

“Something like that. She can be my eyes,” Remy said, waving in Rogue’s direction.

“Seems like he’s putting a lot of faith in you, young lady,” the barber said, raising his eyebrows at her. “We’ve got a true believer here.”

Rogue cringed a bit, shrugged her shoulders. “Are you sure, Remy?” she asked.

The barber draped a red cape over Remy’s shoulders. The barber laughed a bit. “If I had our stylist make you blond, you’d look like the Mighty Thor!”

“More of a Loki, me. Make wit’ de shears already, before I lose my nerve,” Remy ordered, raising a finger and pointing skyward.

The barber sighed and shook his head with a grin. “How’s this length look, my dear?” he asked Rogue, positioning the scissors at the nape of Remy’s neck.

“Uhm, a little shorter Ah think. No, that’s too short! Yes, okay...there,” Rogue guessed. 

“I think I might need to get my hedge clippers,” the barber said to himself and applied his scissors just above the tie holding Remy’s hair back from his face. After much sawing of shears, he announced: “There you go, the deed is done.”

Remy put his shades back on his face and regarded his reflection. “O-oh, well...my poppa’s not gonna like this.”

The barber chuckled. “Your pop an aging hippy?” he asked. “Got quite a few relics from Woodstock ‘round these parts, and their little flower children.”

Remy fingered the ends of his shorn hair, now curling around his jawline. “ _ Almost cut my hair. Happened just de other day. It's gettin' kind of long...I could've said it was in my way.” _

The barber patted Remy’s shoulders. “Doesn’t look like you  _ almost  _ cut your hair, looks like you actually  _ did _ .”

“Technically,  _ you  _ did,” Remy told him.

“Take those shades off again, young man,” the barber instructed. “We’ll get you neatened up a bit and then you can get out of the hot seat.”

Remy obeyed the man’s instructions and was doused with mist from a spray bottle.

“We’ll have you straightened out for Turkey Day tomorrow…” the barber began and chuckled. “At least I  _ hope  _ I will. Think this job may require overtime!”

“I promise I’m a good tipper,” Remy said, momentarily hidden from view as the barber combed his hair forward with a black comb. He peeked out at Rogue while the barber worked. She looked nervous and was chewing her lip. He grinned and winked at her. Rogue smiled back. 

“Don’t look too bad,” she admitted.

“High praise!” Remy replied, closed his eyes again.

The barber brushed the clippings from Remy’s shoulders, then looked at the floor. “If I cut any more off, I’m going to have to get a second rubbish bin. Anyway...how about a shave then?”

“No!” Rogue said and Remy laughed.

He put his sunglasses back on, considered his new do. “ _ Got a devil’s haircut, in my mind!  _ But, it looks like it might be standin’ on end,” he observed, and tried to flatten the flyaway locks. In any case, he looked like a Guild thief no more. 

“Might be that your head’s in shock,” Rogue said.

“Lookin’ good, young man,” the barber announced. “When you’re given a great head of hair, like  _ mine _ , might as well flaunt it! It’s a gift!”

Remy smiled and stood when the barber swished off the cape. “Thank you, sir,” he said and removed his wallet from his coat pocket. “This was an experience. First time someone outside a my family cut my hair.”

“Clearly they’ve been neglecting you!” the barber joked and accepted the bills Remy handed him. Looking at his tip, he announced: “Excelsior!”

“Thanks for puttin’ up with us,” Rogue told him. “Have a happy Thanksgiving!”

Now back outside on the sidewalk, Rogue reached up and mussed Remy’s hair even more. He laughed and pulled away, taking her hand in his. 

“Well, that was my last dollar spent,” Remy said to her. 

  
“If you need any money, sugah---,” Rogue began.

Remy shook his head. “No, no. I can get some cash.”

“You get a contract? Gonna steal something not nailed down?”

“Nah, over here,” he said and pointed to the ATM outside of the small bank.

“Thought you didn’t use a bank?”

“It’s not my account,” Remy said. He fished around in his wallet, found his bank card behind the photo of Belle.

Rogue put her hands on her hips. “Who’s card is that then?”

“My father’s,” Remy said. “I hope I can remember dis here pin.”

Having met with success, Remy looked at the account information. He blinked. “Well, that’s....”

Rogue was standing behind the privacy barrier. “Everything okay? Ah told you, we can just---.”

“No, everything’s fine,” Remy said perplexed. “It’s just that I’d never seen dis account have more than a three-digit amount in it.” Remy stared at the few thousand dollars that was now in the emergency account. “It must be some kinda bank error. We don’t have dis kinda cash.”

“At least it’s in your favor,” Rogue said.

Hesitantly, Remy poked at the keys to make a withdrawal. If his father already knew where he was, then it didn’t matter now. Hopefully, his using the account wouldn’t signal some kind of attempt at contact. 

“Dis’ll get me squared away with Robin at least,” he said, taking the bills and stuffing them into his wallet.

“Don’t forget your card,” Rogue said and took the card from the slot. Before he could stop her, she looked at it. “‘Jean-Michel Lord’?”

Remy felt a small jolt, a weird feeling of disassociation. He held out his hand for the card, which she turned over to him. “That’s an alias. My last name is...LeBeau.”

“Remy LeBeau,” she repeated, staring at his face. She smiled. “You’re right, it  _ does  _ sound made up.” 

“Maybe it’s my nom de plume?” he said. “For when I write my smutty romance novels.”

Taking his arm, they proceeded down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of the apartment. “You sure you want to give up your place?” she said in a wheedling tone. “Ah mean...it’s so outta the way...private.”

A smile flashed across Remy’s face. “You thinkin’ you want some privacy, chère?” 

“Maybe  _ we  _ need some privacy…?”

Remy suddenly had a spring in his step. Rogue laughed. They paused on a street corner to let a few cars drive through the intersection. Rogue turned and tugged his coat lapels, and he obeyed her silent request by bowing slightly to bring himself to her height. She turned her head and kissed him softly. The kiss became more ardent. 

A cheerful bell chimed several times. The pair looked up and a bicycle whizzed past. “Get a room!” called the bike rider and he flashed a peace sign.

“Indianapolis is gonna end your streak t’morrow!” Remy shouted after Curtis.

“GoPatsGoPats GO PATS!”

Later, back in the apartment, Remy felt quite flush. And it had nothing to do with the sudden appearance of extra cash in the emergency fund. The loveliest woman in the world was in bed, his bed, scooting backwards up from the foot of the bed to lay her head on the pillows. Her pretty hair framed her face. Best of all she was smiling at him. Also, she was definitely naked, not nude. Remy had shucked his shirt as soon as they’d entered his apartment, and now stood at the foot of the bed, pulling off his boots, then drawing down his jeans. He climbed onto the bed, sitting by her feet. He lightly brushed the tops of her toes with his fingers.

“No tickling!” she admonished, waving a finger at him. Her other arm was raised behind her head, propped up so she could look at him.    
  


“No tickling,” he promised, then took one of her feet and pulled it into his lap. He pressed his thumbs into the ball of her foot. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. Remy’s hands moved to her instep.

“Why don’t you show me…” he began, kneading her heel. “How you like to touch yourself?”

Her green eyes opened and she regarded him through heavy lidded eyes. “Mm…” she hesitated. The knee to her opposite leg turned to the side and Remy thought he might have caught a glimpse of heaven. 

“You shy about it?” he asked. “Or should we figure it out together?”

“Not...shy,” she said, and her fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh. “It’s just…” she laughed a little. “Ah guess Ah’m more acquainted with mah hand shower…?” The corner of her mouth curled into a smile.

Remy took her other foot into his hand. He kept his focus on her toes, painted a pretty shade of shell pink that had matched her undergarments before she’d tossed them to the floor. He thought even her toes were delicious looking, and he might want to put one in his mouth. Probably not a good idea if she was ticklish though. “Shame my shower is just for one,” he told her. “Otherwise…”

Rogue pulled her foot from his lap and sat up. Remy’s eyes moved up her folded legs to her breasts. The word for ‘exquisite’ appeared in several languages inside his mind’s eye. 

“Does your shower have a door, or a curtain?” she asked in a pleasant sounding voice.

Remy’s brain had the hiccups and he didn’t understand why they were talking bathroom decor. “Kinda like a European sort of affair,” he said with mild confusion, “with the glass door that folds.”

“Hmm,” Rogue said, and began crawling towards him on her hands and knees. She was still smiling. 

Remy was pretty sure something had burst inside his skull. This wasn’t happening, and Rogue was in fact, an angel from heaven sent to take him to stand before Saint Peter. 

“So, there’s room for one,” Rogue said, her mouth a whisper away from his lips. “And there’s a glass door. And you wanted me to  _ show  _ you...what Ah like. Y’sure you don’t mind just watching?”

“ _ Oh, mon Dieu _ ,” Remy said and almost fell off the end of the bed in his haste to stand. 

“So you  _ can  _ move fast when you want!” Rogue said. 

The sounds Rogue made in the shower made Remy thankful he’d put down another month’s worth of rent on the apartment. Things were getting particularly steamy...until they weren’t.

“Oh, oh mah god! That’s  _ cold _ !”

Remy pulled open the shower door and handed her a towel. “Sorry, forgot to say about dat part.”

Rogue squealed and dashed past him through the bathroom door and back into the apartment. She clambered up onto the bed and pulled the bed coverings over herself. “You’d best get over here and warm me up!” she commanded.

Remy hopped up beside her onto the bed. They lay on their sides facing one another. He offered her his hand, it was plenty warm. Rogue guided his palm down her body, letting him linger on her breasts, brush the backs of his fingers against her navel, before moving his fingers between her legs.

She gasped. 

“Is dis good?” he asked. 

She nodded slightly. 

He asked: “D’you want me, inside?” 

Rogue shook her head ‘no’. 

“D’accord, petite,” he whispered, moved himself closer. 

She pressed his fingers against her heat, moved herself against his hand. She sighed, half frustrated.

Remy sat up, positioned himself in a seated position between her legs, moving aside the blankets. “We got all day, chère. No rush. Can I put both hands on you?”

Rogue nodded, looking slightly guarded. He ran his hands lightly up the insides of her thighs. “It’s like a massage. Only a bit higher than your feet.”

She smiled again, closed her eyes. After a while, she let out a small sound, kept clamped behind her lips. Remy moved his thumbs upward and she pulled a pillow over her face and moaned.

“Still good?” he asked, watching his fingers slide along the innermost part of her sex. Then back up to her most sensitive place.

Rogue gasped and pulled back. Remy put his hands in his lap, looking at her. “Not good?”

She pulled a lock of hair from where it had caught in her mouth. “No, no it felt good. Just. Intense.”

His eyes roved her body hungrily. “There is not an inch on your body I wouldn’t touch. Not a place I wouldn’t want to kiss.”

A sigh shuddered out of her. “Remy…” she began. “Ah want that too.”

His eyes returned to hers. “Would you let me put my mouth on you?”

Her face was flushed, her tiny freckles looked darker against the pinkness of her cheeks. “Is that somethin’...you’d like? It’s not---.”

“I’d like it very much. I told you. I’d kiss every inch of you. Every part of you is beautiful.”

“Ah don’t know. What’s it feel like?”

He smiled and moved ever so slightly forward. “Well, can’t say from your perspective. But I imagine wet...warm. Not unlike a shower. Or a hot bath, only in a very localized area.”

She made a sound, any hesitation she might have had weakened and faded away. Rogue’s head lowered to the pillow, her hands clenched the sheets, and her knees fell to either side. If the sounds that echoed from the shower were a tune, the sounds she made in the following few minutes were more akin to a warble. One of her hands moved to his hair, and he felt her fingers tangle themselves there. She might have tugged, pulling him just a fraction to the left. When he stopped his progress, she gasped in disappointment. 

He turned his face to the side, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh, lessening her grip on his head. “Chère,” he whispered. “Can ya not pull my hair?”

“Oh!” she said in surprise. “Sorry, Ah didn’t realize Ah was even doin’ it.”

“S’all right,” he murmured. “Shall I continue?”

“Oh, oh mah god,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Eventually, she did make him stop, gently pushing on his shoulder. She was panting slightly. “Okay, that was better than a shower,” she said weakly.

He laughed and ran his wrist over his chin. “Thought you were speakin’ in tongues there for a second, chère.”

“There was just the one tongue,” she said, hugging her legs together, squeezing her eyes shut. “Though sometimes it felt like two.”

He pulled himself to lay beside her, looking down at her body. He desperately wanted to pull her nakedness against him, to feel every part of her along his entire length. She rolled slightly towards him. Her hand touched his face to run down his neck, over his shoulder and down his arm. One arm was pinned beneath him against the mattress, the other rested on his hip. When she reached his wrist, she paused, and her fingers trailed along the waistband of his shorts. “Do you mind this?” she asked, and touched him through the fabric.

“No, not at all,” he whispered. 

Rogue’s eyes searched his face, then she seemed to gather some resolve. Her hand delved beneath his waistband and he sucked in a breath. 

“Is this okay?” she asked. 

“Mmn,” he said.

Rogue pushed his shorts down, and he obliged her by lifting his hips. She urged him onto his back, and straddled his thighs. She was looking down at him. He wondered if she’d ever seen a naked man like this before. Her hands were gentle on him. Maybe even softer than he’d like, but he didn’t urge her onwards. Forcing himself to wait was part of the pleasure. He watched her hands move on him. It was a struggle to remain motionless. Her gaze was cast downward, he could only see the dark fan of her lashes on her cheeks. She did something he particularly liked and he let out a short moan in the back of his throat. Her eyes flicked back up to his face, seeking reassurance.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered to her. 

“Ah think every part of you is pretty beautiful too, Remy,” she said. 

“I was hopin’ t’go with a more ruggedly handsome look,” Remy told her. “Think Logan will mind if I borrow somethin’ from his wardrobe?”

Rogue laughed a little. “Flannel is very ‘in’ right now,” she said softly, continuing to move her hands up and down his length. 

He considered interrupting her, just for a moment, to grab something from the bag under his bed. He thought there might’ve been a bottle of hotel room lotion somewhere in there. Distracted for an instant, he suddenly realized he was surrounded with warm, wet heat. He gasped, feeling her lips on him, then her mouth. His hands slid across the mattress to either side, he sat up slightly to watch her. The sight was entirely too arousing. It became too intense, and he touched her gently on the shoulder. Rogue sat up, her hand over her mouth, now bright red, lips swollen.

“Did that feel good?” she asked, a little nervously.

“A little too,” he told her. “Under de bed. In my bag…”

Rogue turned, leaned over the edge of the bed to fumble beneath it. Remy was presented with the beautiful sight of her rounded posterior. Another place he’d like to touch with his mouth. Rogue found what she was looking for, climbed back onto the bed to lay beside him. She wrapped her hand around him. Her hand slid smooth and firm against him, over and over. He stilled her hand, gasping. 

“Rogue,” he hissed.

“Ah’ve read enough romance novels t’know what happens next,” she told him, her voice low and sultry in his ear. 

He shuddered in her grip, turned his face to the pillow and groaned. They lay beside one another for several minutes until Rogue pulled herself from the bed to go to the bathroom. She returned momentarily and climbed under the covers beside him. Remy still lay immobilized on top of the bedclothes. 

“You okay there, sugah?” she asked, turning her head to look at him with a smile.

“Mmn.”

“Speechless, then?” She turned towards him, picked up a lock of his hair. It curled sharply at the ends where it had been cut. “We should probably go back soon. Ah need to help with the food prep for tomorrow.”

“Can’t we just live on lovemakin’?” he mumbled.

“‘Fraid not. Ah could maybe go a few days, but Ah think you’d starve before Friday.”

He slowly placed his hand on her middle, covered as she was by a sheet, she didn’t shy from his unprompted touch. “We never did much prep-work for Thanksgiving,” he told her. “Didn’t even make groceries.”

“Your family?” Rogue asked to clarify. “Did ya not have Thanksgiving dinner then?”

Remy propped himself up on an elbow to look at her. “No, we ate plenty. Just ran around all over de place stealin’ from de other cla---er, relatives. Then everybody’d bring whatever we stole from each other to Tante Mattie’s house, make it all up then. Everyone starts drinkin’ ‘bout ten in de morning. Then someone starts singin’ songs and dat goes on until dawn or until everyone’s passed out. Whichever comes first. Do a bigger version at Mardi Gras.”

Rogue grinned. “That sounds like a riot, sugah.”

“What all did your family do?” Remy asked. 

Rogue’s smile faded. “When Ah was a girl, it was a pretty somber affair. Very formal. Lots a prayin’.”

“We prayed too, mostly for a hangover cure.”

Rogue laughed. “Certainly no drinkin’ at mah house. But later...when I was taken in by...mah new family, Ah learned t’cook mahself. Made us a proper Thanksgiving.”

“You didn’t say you were adopted,” Remy said. 

Rogue shook her head slightly. “We’re no longer on speaking terms. Me and mah adoptive mother, her partner.”

“Sorry t’hear. Know that’s not easy. Especially during de holidays.”

Rogue gazed at Remy. “No, it’s easier for me now,” she told him. “Mah momma, she’s...not a nice person. She used me. Well, and Ah let her. From when Ah was just a teeny kid to---til a year or so ago. Ah used mah powers on whoever got in mah way, for her. And Ah  _ liked  _ it. Then, it seemed Ah’d absorbed enough folks, their thoughts, that maybe Ah started to get a conscience of mah own. By that time Ah’d had so many personalities in mah head, Ah’d like t’go crazy. Ah’d like to think it was mah newfound guilt, but maybe Ah just couldn’t take it anymore. Ah went to Xavier for help. It was the hardest thing Ah ever went through.” 

She drew a shaking breath. “The other X-Men didn’t want me there, at first. Ah’d hurt their friend, near killed her. Xavier was the only one who spoke up for me.” A tear rolled from the corner of her eye. “Ah’ve tried t’make up for mah mistakes. Be a part of the team.”

Remy took the corner of the sheet, wiped her tears. “Seems like you made de right choice, chère.”

She nodded. “Ah think so. You plannin’ on stickin’ around too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “Unless I stay here, part-time, and you keep comin’....over.”

Rogue grinned. “What about your people, then? You gonna break it to them?”

Remy felt his smile dim. “I suppose. I suppose maybe I should probably at least call. Talk to my brother, anyway. Say ‘Happy Thanksgiving.’”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. Rogue sat up and kissed his mouth. “C’mon, get your pants on. Ah got to prepare the dressing.”

Remy moaned. “I do miss my Tante’s dressing!” Slowly, he complied. They pulled on their clothes, but not before Remy tried to snatch Rogue’s panties away. 

“Here,” Remy told her as they walked down the outside steps. “Let’s take my bike. It’ll be cold, but not take as long as walkin’.” 

Remy backed his bike from the garage, handed Rogue a helmet.

“Hardly need a helmet, sugah,” she told him. 

“Hardly need t’get pulled over, chère,” Remy informed her. “Sorry your hair is about t’get flattened. I can wake it back up for you once we get back.”

Rogue obediently put the helmet onto her head. Remy tightened the strap under her chin. “Okay, now don’t try to compensate and shift about. Just stick t’me when we go ‘round curves.”

“Ah’ll remind you of that, next time we go for a fly,” Rogue smirked. “When can Ah drive?” 

“Get on de back,” Remy said by way of reply, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. Rogue climbed on as he started the engine. The noise loudly echoed off the side of the garage. Once he was certain Rogue was seated, her arms around his waist, he started off down the gravel drive, then onto the main street. The cold stung his bare knuckles and face, but helped clear his sex-addled head. It was a short bike ride to the mansion. Rogue directed him towards the garage in the rear of the home. Remy stopped just before the garage door and Rogue climbed off the bike. She pulled off her borrowed helmet, walked towards the side door to the garage. Remy waited while the garage door opened, walked his bike inside. 

There was another Harley in the garage. Remy parked beside it; his bike, battered, scratched and dirty, looked even more so next to the black and chrome beast therein. When Remy cut the engine, he patted his bike reassuringly. “Don’t fret, Loretta,” he told the bike. “Beauty, she fades, but character is forever.”

Rogue handed him her helmet and he stored it in a compartment in the bike. “She’s named Loretta?” Rogue asked. “Loretta Lynn?”

“Could there be another?” Remy asked. “And here we are, Louisiana Woman and a Mississippi Man, gender switch version.  _ Hey, Lou’siana woman, Mississippi man…” _

Together: “We _get together ever’ time we can._ _The Mississippi River can't keep us apaahrt.”_

Rogue sang low: _ “There's too much love in the Mississippi heart.” _

Remy, falsetto: “ _ Too much love in dis Lou’siana heart! _ ”

“Next verse you sing Conway’s part, and  _ Ah’ll  _ do Loretta.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Walking back towards the mansion, they howled: “ _ Well, Mississippi River, Lord, it's one mahle wide. And Ah gotta get me to the other side. Mississippi man, I'm losin' my mind. Gotta have your lovin’ one more time. I'm gonna jump in the river and here I go. Too bad alligator you swim too slow! _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Thanksgiving, football, family-bonding.
> 
> Random references:
> 
> Rogue sings Cyndi Lauper
> 
> Any guesses who Stan is?
> 
> Almost Cut My Hair - Crosby Stills Nash and Young, they played at Woodstock
> 
> Devils Haircut - Beck  
> Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man - Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn


	29. Chapter 29

Bobby let out a hoot of victorious cheer as his team scored. Rogue watched him from the doorway leading to the kitchen. They’d temporarily set up the television in the sitting room. Several of the mansion’s inhabitants, all male, were seated around the screen, watching the game. Rogue’s eyes moved to Remy, who was regarding the screen with a look of mild disgust. 

“This is a complete trouncing,” he griped from his position on the couch beside Bobby. 

Kurt was perched on the opposite end of the couch. Hank was crushed onto the loveseat, idly tossing his own football from hand to hand. Logan was standing, staring at the football game, which he had pronounced as ‘boring’ and not as good as hockey. Hank and Remy denounced him as a traitor to the U.S. of A;. Bobby agreed that hockey was ‘okay,’ but football was tradition. Piotr, seated in a chair beside Remy, had no opinion, but politely watched with the others. 

“Are you needing help, Rogue?” Piotr asked her. 

“Nah, sugah,” Rogue told him. “We’ve got it all squared in here. Just a couple hours yet.”

“In that case,” Hank said, and twirled his football on his forefinger, “perhaps we can get in a game of our own before dinner?”

“I can’t watch any more of dis,” Remy said and stood. “It’ll put me off my meal.”

Rogue gave him a once over. He was dressed in a fairly bizarre outfit, a sweatshirt that might have been made by an insane quilter, or perhaps a blind one, that was ripped horizontally near his waistline. Bike shorts, equally bright, and tennis shoes. His hair was maintained in a purple bandana. “You’d better give yourself enough time t’clean up,” she informed him. “Put on somethin’ suitable.”

He looked down at himself. “What’s wrong wit’ what I got on? Don’t y'all wear stretchy pants t’de table?”

“I can get on board with that!” Bobby said, hopping to his feet. He was wearing what could be charitably described as ‘gym-clothes.’ 

“Can I be on your team?” Remy asked Bobby, and they fist-bumped one another in solidarity.

Rogue put her hands on her hips and frowned at them both. 

“I’m game!” said a voice from the opposite entry leading to the foyer. Betsy was standing there, her hands also on her hips. She pointed at Remy. “I’ll be on the opposite team as _him_! It's payback time!”

“It’s on like Donkey Kong!” Remy declared, raising his arms and exposing most of his stomach.

Rogue, Logan, and Hank were standing on the sidelines of the loosely designated 50-yard line a few moments later. Bobby was attempting to call a play and Hank was shaking his head, embarrassed for the younger man, but not contradicting him. He’d made himself the referee. Bobby, Remy, Piotr and Kurt were on one side of the scrimmage line; Jean, Betsy, Ororo, and Shadowcat on the other. The rest of the ranks were filled in by the younger students. 

Remy and Betsy were crouched closest to where Rogue, Hank and Logan stood, facing one another. 

“I’m going to _get_ you, Gambit,” Betsy said to Remy, eyes narrowed but mouth smiling. “For that foul you pulled on me that night!”

He returned the challenge of her glare. “De only thing you’re gonna _get_ , chère, is de sight of dis _tight end_ breakin’ through your defensive line.” Then he sucked in his cheeks and made fish lips at her. 

Bobby called out. Betsy dove at Remy a few seconds before the snap with an animal-like cry. Remy was swept backwards by a wave of purple fury. Hank blew his whistle repeatedly. 

“What’s your call, Hank?” Logan asked, watching the battle unfold as the line of scrimmage broke up to make way for the flailing of limbs.

Hank scratched his head. “I mean, there are just so many to pick from.”

“Personal foul!” Remy was shouting. “Ow! _Personal foul!_ ”

Ororo joined Logan, folding her arms across her chest. “It seems Elisabeth’s physical training is coming along,” she observed. 

“I taught her that one,” Logan said, pointing as Betsy threw a fist.

Several sympathetic shouts could be heard from the gathered audience. “And I, that particular maneuver,” Ororo said with satisfaction.

“Uncle! Uncle!” Remy shouted to the sky. “Uncle Stephen, come curse dis woman! Help me!”

“What do you think, ‘Ro?” Logan asked. “Should we make her an official part of the team?”

Ororo considered the brawl taking place before them. “I believe so. And perhaps a place for Remy as well?”

“Let’s see how much of him is left after this,” Logan told her and Ororo laughed. 

“Will no one help me?” Remy wailed.

Rogue saw a shadow fall over her from behind. She turned to see Magnus behind her. He was wearing a black coat and fedora, dark against the bright white of his hair. “Lookin’ pretty spiffy there, sugah,” she smiled at him. He might have smiled back. 

“Dinner is nearly ready,” he told her. 

Rogue tapped Hank on the shoulder. “You’d better call off the game, hon,” she said. 

“I’m not entirely sure _what_ this is…,” Hank said idly. “More of a cage match.” He blew extensively on his whistle, then announced a word that would put an end to everything: “Dinner!” 

Remy crawled from the playing field and collapsed in front of Rogue. 

“Y’all right there, Rem?” she asked, looking down at him as he rolled onto his back. The remaining players were heading back up towards the house.

“Sure, dis was almost as much fun as it is back home,” he told her, panting slightly. “When can we start drinkin’?”

Rogue bent to bring herself closer to where he lay in the grass. “Maybe after you’ve changed.”

He grinned at her. “You don’t like my outfit?”

“Ah got a problem with this shirt,” she told him. “It’s not short enough!” She reached down and ran her fingers up his sides. He reflexively laughed, wrapping his arms around himself for protection.

“I thought we had a no-tickling rule!” he said, and raised his arms to her. She helped him to his feet. 

“ _Ah_ have a no-tickling rule,” she told him. “You’re not off limits.”

“You’re right, no boundaries for me,” he winked at her and they started up to the house. They passed Magnus on their way up the hill. He was standing where Rogue had last seen him, not moving. Remy tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his fist and said: “Hey, don’t say ‘Grace’ wit’out us!”

Rogue looked over Remy’s shoulder at Magnus as they walked by. “Ah think Ah have mah work cut out for me,” she said to Magnus with a laugh. He didn’t smile back.

Rogue took Remy upstairs to an unused dormitory room at the back of the men’s wing. “We might be able to find you something in here,” she said and opened the door. The room was chilly from disuse. She walked to the closet and opened the bi-fold doors. 

“Hey, look at dis,” Remy said, immediately claiming the ugliest thing in the closet, a tacky brown suit. “If this doesn’t scream Barry Gibb circa 1977…”

Rogue pulled it from his grip. “No!” she said, scolding him. She hid the suit in the back of the closet, but she had a feeling Remy was likely to steal it at first opportunity. Maybe she should burn it? “Scott is about your size,” she said, flipping through the old clothes. 

“These Slim’s?” he asked, holding forth a pair of slim checkered slacks. “Beatnik chic!”

Rogue traded the offensive slacks for a pair of khakis which Remy dropped on the floor as if burned. “I’ll wear my least hole-y jeans, thanks very much,” he told her. 

Rogue returned from the closet with another option, a plain button down shirt and a blue sports jacket. Remy made a critical face.

“Hey, at least it’s blue. Your other choices are gray or black.”

“Lookin’ like a funeral, dis,” Remy said and pulled off his sweatshirt. Rogue handed him the button down shirt, which he pulled on. 

“Do you have a white shirt t’go under that?” she asked him, regarding his bare torso. 

“White? _Plain_ white?”

“Okay, nevermind,” she approached and fixed his collar. Unable to resist, she ran a finger over his chin, then down the middle of his chest. 

A slow mischievous smile spread across his face. 

“Now, Remy…”

“I’m just thinkin’, chère,” he began.

“Dangerous,” Rogue said, and started buttoning his shirt.

“I mean, after a heavy meal and all. Might not be feelin’ too frisky later. But right now…”

She put her fingers over his lips to silence him. “You said you wanted to be there to say ‘Grace.’”

His mouth curved into a grin. 

She looked up at him coyly. “We can take a nice walk after…” she began, and handed him the coat. “Maybe up to your apartment.”

“I’d like to kiss you at least, right _now_ ,” he told her.

“Alright,” she agreed. “But nothin’ else.”

He leaned down slightly and she met him the rest of the way. Rogue felt a shivery feeling travel the length of her body. She withdrew and tried to pretend she felt nothing in her belly...or lower. 

“Let’s find your jeans,” she said, and snapped the waistband of his colorful shorts. He winced. Rogue plucked the bandana off his head. “And a hairbrush.”

Rogue shepherded him down the hall back towards his room. She closed the empty dorm room door, locking it from the inside first (not that that would stop Remy from breaking in later). Now in his room, he was searching the rumpled clothing in a bag he’d stashed under his bed. He found a pair of medium blue colored jeans. There was only some fraying in one knee. Rogue turned to the dresser to find a hairbrush while he shucked his shorts and pulled on on the jeans. Apparently, a pair of Nike’s with a navy blue swoosh were going to complete his look. He approached her from behind and looked at her in the dresser mirror. 

“You sure do look purty,” he told her. “You always dress so fly just t’hang around de kitchen all day?”

Rogue shrugged. She was wearing a red long-sleeved dress. All of her skin was covered. “It’s a special occasion,” she told him. “Ah don’t got much cause to dress up now, do Ah?”

“I need t’find me a client with some cash to burn,” he told her. “Rescue some trinket so I could take you out proper.”

She turned towards him. “First you oughta find yourself somethin’ less wild ta wear.”

“Y’hate my clothes so much?” he asked and accepted the brush from her hand. She tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans. 

“No, Ah don’t hate them,” she admitted, frowning as he pulled one of the shirttails back out. “You dress however you want, sugah.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you none, hanging out with a scofflaw like me in a goofy getup.”

“‘Scofflaw,’” she laughed. “Your clothes _are_ a good disguise. So you don’t have to take yourself seriously, or let anyone else assume you’re serious either.”

“Uh-oh, she’s onta me,” he said. His hair crackled with static electricity. “Can’t let dat happen, chère. Then people might _expect_ things from me.”

“Hm, like maybe you takin’ on responsibility? You say it like a joke, but that’s when you’re tellin’ the plain truth.” She smoothed his hair. “Ah think you can handle it, if you’d try.”

“Sorry, I got enough problems takin’ responsibility for my own self.”

Rogue sighed and let her shoulders raise and drop. “We can talk about this some other time,” she told him. “Now let’s get downstairs and see if Ah can’t get you to start fillin’ out these old clothes of yours.” 

“I’ll agree to half of what you just said.”

“Maybe the other half after a glass of wine?”

“How about three?”

~oOo~

Remy was in the kitchen at the X-Mansion. It was late, at least for the other X-Folks. To him, it was more like a late lunch (leftover turkey sandwich). He and Rogue had taken a walk after dinner, but made it no further than the boathouse by the lake. It had sustained some structural damage from when Rogue had exploded, but the interior was mostly unscathed. It was private anyway. They’d expended several hundred calories in foolin’ around, then returned to the house for pie. Remy had a hand in making the pecan, and everyone who ate it promptly lapsed into a sugar coma. 

Remy stared at the phone on the kitchen wall; he had been glancing at it for the last hour. He was not much for overconsumption of alcohol, what with the whole spontaneously exploding thing he’d been suffering from, but he finished the rest of the wine in the bottle that had been left on the counter. He forced himself to pick up the receiver and dialed a number. The phone rang. It was possible his family was three-sheets to the wind and one of the kids would answer the phone, probably with a rude joke. Not that it was any less likely that any other family member wouldn’t have something off-color to say. A third ring and Remy was ready to hang up. Maybe he’d call at Christmas. 

The line suddenly picked up as the receiver was halfway between Remy’s ear and the cradle. “Allo?” a voice called. Remy thought it was one of his cousins, the nice one.

He reluctantly put the receiver back to his ear. “Hey, is Henri there?” he asked, back in his newscaster voice, as if he were telling the weather report. 

“Lemme look,” his cousin replied. Instead of actually looking, Remy heard the other man scream: “‘On-REE! PHONE!”

“Emil, lower your voice, I’m standin’ right here,” Henri said. “Who is it?”

“I didn’t ask,” Emil responded. “Sounds like a Yankee.”

Remy heard Henri make an annoyed sound, one with which he was very familiar. He could picture his older brother’s expression too. “Allo?” Henri asked.

Remy swallowed dryly, wishing for more wine. “Hey. Hey, mon frère.”

“ _Remy?_ ” Henri said, his voice low and incredulous. 

“Comment ça va?” Remy asked in a falsely bright voice. 

Henri made his annoyed sound again. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Y’ain’t hurt, or in trouble are you?”

“Is that Remy?” Remy heard Emil say loudly. “Lemme talk t’him. I got t’tell him ‘bout what I got cursed with last week. Hey! Hey, Remy! You won’t believe dis, but---!”

“Emil, get outta here!” Henri scolded. 

Remy couldn’t help himself, he was grinning stupidly at the calendar stuck to the wall. There was a puppy and a kitten sitting in a cornucopia on the page for November.

“Remy, you there?” Henri asked.

“Yeah,” Remy said. “I’m fine, Henri. Just callin’ t’tell you happy Thanksgiving, is all.”

Henri sighed into the phone. “You coulda told me dat _in_ _person_.”

“You plannin’ on visitin’ New York?” Remy asked, feigning stupidity. 

“You can’t be thinkin’ you’re staying up there,” Henri told him. “You must’ve lost your mind. It’s too damn cold.”

“I been invited t’stay,” Remy replied. “And they haven’t kicked me out yet.”

“I’m sure it’s a matter of time,” Henri said drolly.

“Yup, gettin’ t’be a habit with me,” Remy said without humor.

“I’m sorry, Remy, I didn’t mean dat,” Henri said immediately. “You know poppa wants you back here. He’s a patient man, but he’s got his limits.”

“Just play him some Yusuf Islam, and he’ll settle,” Remy said.

“What?”

“Cat Stevens, Henri. C’mon, man changed his name ages ago. Get wit’ de times.”

“God dammit, Remy!”

“ _Language!_ What would Tante Mattie say?”

“Probably that you’re being a right pain in de butt! Worried herself sick about you.”

“She’s okay for real though, not sick,” Remy asked for reassurance.

“She’s healthy enough. Tell you what though, it’s a sad state of affairs, dis holiday. There’s no joy in Mudville t’night.”

Remy said nothing. 

“Lissen, Remy---.”

“Giant starfish thing!” Emil continued, picking up another phone elsewhere in the house. “Even Strange didn’t know what t’make of it. Said it was prob’ly alien! Hah! Just my luck! So it don’t count as a curse officially! Nyaaaah!”

“Get off de phone!” Both Remy and Henri shouted.

“Happy Turkey Day! Gobble ‘til you wobble!” Emil announced and hung up.

The two brothers sighed with impatience. “It ain’t just you and him in de house?” Remy asked. 

“Nah, de others are workin’ their way to havin’ a hangover.”

“This is why I called now. Figured I’d strike while y’all were at your weakest. What are you, designated downer for de evening?”

“I’m just here in case someone needs taken to de traiteur. Y’ought to come home. I miss you, pest.”

“Something-something miss you too, brother.”

“You always were _such a brat_. You call me back then, next week. Same time. I don’t want to wait ‘til Christmas to hear from you again….Remy?”

“Yeah, okay.” 

Another sigh. “Good. Good night then. Love you.”

“Sure. You too.”

Remy slowly began to return the phone to the cradle after he heard Henri hang up. His brother’s disappointment seemed to palpitate from the receiver. No doubt Henri would be looking for Jean-Luc now. Remy thought he heard a second click through the phone line. Remy put the receiver back to his ear, wanting to ride Emil a bit about the curse-thing.

“Emil?” Remy asked. It was unnaturally quiet. Emil must not have been on the line. Remy hung up the phone. 

_Home...where my thought's escapin'. Home...where my music's playin'. Home...where my love lies waitin'...silently for me..._

Shut up, brain, what do you know? Remy said to himself. It was like his mind was trying to tell him something. 

Remy walked into the hallway leading to the foyer. A light was shining beneath the door to Xavier’s office, now repaired and smelling like fresh drywall and paint. The light clicked off as he approached. Remy paused, looked at the door. He cast his senses into the room beyond. His senses pinged him back, a resistance against his energy field. He frowned, shook his head dismissively, and turned towards the stairs. 

No sense in getting bent out of shape about Wet Blanket. It was a special occasion, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random References:
> 
> Homeward Bound - song by Simon & Garfunkel
> 
> Next time: Holiday shopping and S.A.D.
> 
> Thanks for the reviews, the subscriptions, and the follows, friends. I should be kicking out two chapters a week I think. With two weeks off for the holidays, I'd finished this book and the following book, Dealing with the Devil.


	30. Chapter 30

December, 1997

The mall was crowded with holiday shoppers and festively decorated for Christmas. They’d had to drive to Danbury, Connecticut, as the North Salem area had little in the way of shopping centers. Rogue didn’t know if it was the crowds or the Connecticut traffic that had Remy so twitchy. He seemed incredibly anxious, something that only increased when Rogue directed him to enter Lord & Taylor.

“Can’t be goin’ in dis fancy pants store,” he told her as she gently applied her hand to his back, urging him through the revolving doors.

“Relax, sugah,” Rogue said. “We only need two things here, then we’ll skedaddle.”

“Don’t see what’s wrong with Goodwill,” he complained as she took him towards the section with the winter wear. 

“You can spend a little on somethin’ that’s junk, and buy it over and over again, or you can invest in something once, and have it for a good long time,” she told him. Rogue fingered a few scarves, selected two in bold colors she thought Remy would like, and offered them to him; one peacock blue, one in magenta. He looked at the price tag and shook his head. Rogue put the blue one around his neck. “That looks nice, Ah think.”

Before he could protest, she’d moved on towards the gloves. “Here’s mah area of expertise,” she said, handing him a pair of tan leather gloves. “See, this is painless, hon! Let’s go get in line to check out.”

He was uncharacteristically silent as they stood in the long line. “You okay?” she asked him. 

Remy was staring off into space. His gaze momentarily focused on her face. “Yeah, except I heard this here Mariah Carey song about five times now. Can we please go back to de School?”

“We came all this way…” Rogue began, then saw his pained expression. “We can stop somewhere on the way back and grab something to eat. Someplace not as crowded.”

He fished out his wallet from his coat, handed it to her. “Not really hungry. I’m gonna go stand outside.”

She smiled grimly at him and watched him weave his way through the other shoppers towards the exit. “Christmas shopping is not for the faint-hearted,” she told herself. Rogue didn’t use the money in Remy’s wallet, but paid for the purchase with her own savings. She met him back outside. He was smoking a cigarette, huddled against the side of the building out of the wind. When he saw her, he flicked the butt into a nearby trash can. 

“Merry early Christmas,” she told him and handed him the shopping bag and his wallet. 

“You did not just buy dis for me,” he said unhappily.

“Ah did,” she said with authority. “Now every time you have warm hands, you can think a me.”

She thought maybe he’d make some kind of blue comment, but he shook his head impatiently and said: “Thanks, chère.”

They returned to the car, Rogue in the driver’s seat, Remy her passenger. He poked at the radio stations for a bit, then turned the stereo off. He opened the window a fraction and leaned his head on the doorframe.

“Remy, you doin’ okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he said and adjusted his safety belt. “Just this time a year. Puts me in a funk.”

“Ah’m surprised, you usually got a dance in your step and a song in your heart. Seems like all this,” she waved at the cheerful decorations, the piped sounds of carols, the crisp blue sky with just a few flakes drifting down, “would put ya in a spirited mood.”

“Usually by mid-December, money was tight. We’d be stretched pretty thin. Days are short. I’d like to just go t’sleep. You can wake me after de New Year.”

“Remy, Ah’m sorry. It didn’t occur t’me,” Rogue said, guessing he was talking about his family. “It’ll be different this year.”

“Maybe for me.”

She took his hand, held it between them on the armrest that separated them. They drove in silence for a half hour or so. Remy began nervously tapping a foot. 

“Ah wish the Prof was here, you could talk t’him,” Rogue said, putting a hand on his knee, ending his tapping.

“D’you think he’ll come back?” Remy asked.

Rogue smiled a bit. “Ah hope so, sugah. But he is somewhere out there with his lady love, and Ah can’t fault him that.”

Remy put his head back on the headrest. “Maybe he’s better off in space. Maybe if he did come back, these people would show up on your doorstep with pitchforks and torches.” He waved at the affluent town they passed through. 

“You don’t care much for this area, do you?”

Remy shrugged. “Looks like a movie set.”

“And New Orleans doesn’t look like a movie? Seems t’me there’s quite a few movies takin’ place there.”

“This here place looks fake. New Orrlins looks _real_. Like a beautiful woman with a wart on her nose. An’ you love her more for de wart.”

Rogue smiled softly. “It’s peaceful and quiet here, Remy,” she said. 

“Bound t’be quiet, when de county is about as diverse as a glass of homogenized milk, and not de organic cruelty-free kind.”

Rogue slowed as they passed through North Salem on their way to Salem Center. The library was on the corner. Outside, an older librarian was dressed as Mrs. Claus. She was directing a group of small children along the sidewalk, all wearing cardboard boxes and ringing silver bells. She was holding up a book, showing them the pictures: _The Polar Express_. As Rogue passed, the librarian blew a wooden train whistle and the kids followed her lead, making a little train out of the boxes they wore. 

Remy smiled at the sight. “At least there’s a few oddballs out here, to make it interesting.”

“A few...or a whole school, sugah?”

“If anyone ever found out about Magneto bein’ there,” Remy began. “You’re gonna find yourselves out of a home. Most a dese people are gonna turn on you.”

“You got a very pessimistic view of human nature,” Rogue told him.

“I have a very pessimistic view of parties, mobs, cliques, and general groups of people who suffer from same-think. Humans, I like humans---Persons. People en masse are terrible though.”

“We’ve run inta our fair share of that, Remy, it’s true,” Rogue conceded. “But people in numbers are the only way things will ever change. If we work together.”

“Right, can’t wait t’see which mutant those fools in DC choose for de next Supreme Court vacancy. Look at dat bastard Thomas they put on there. Now there’s a hair-sniffer if ever dere was one. At least we got Ginsburg to balance it out.”

“You’re right, we need more representation,” Rogue said. “Maybe X-Factor…”

“Who had to pretend t’be human. Pretend like they were throwin’ kids in jail to get public approval.”

“Ah can see you’re gettin’ fired up. Why don’t we table this discussion?”

“Thought I was an optimist, but I’ve been proved an idiot. I won’t trust anyone t’do de right thing again, especially not a group of someones. Big mistake,” he continued anyway. 

“Remy, Ah trust you. Ah know you’d do the right thing. Ah’d trust you with mah life.”

He was silent for a moment. “I’d trust you wit’ dat, too, Rogue. But I don’t think I’d trust you with my past.”

Rogue felt hurt, tears pricked her eyes. “You think after all Ah’ve done, Ah’d hold anything against you?”

He didn’t respond.

“Whatever it is you’ve done then...,” Rogue said. “Are you different _now_?”

“I hope so. But hope has not served me well so far.”

“Why don’t we think about leaving our past in the past, and look to the future? Not forget it, but move forward from it,” Rogue suggested.

She didn’t think he’d answer, but after a long pause he told her: “I think I like your thinking.” His hand squeezed hers.

I think I love you, Rogue thought.

~oOo~

  
  


“It’s not fit for man nor beast,” Logan told him. “You’re not wanting to run in this, are you?”

Remy shrugged. He was wearing a hoodie pulled up over his knit hat, running shorts, tennis shoes, gloves. “Don’t want to. Got to.”

Logan, Remy, Rogue and Ororo were in the kitchen. Ororo and Logan were seated at the table. Remy and Rogue stood by the door. The day beyond the windows was dismal and gray. “I wish I could help with the inclement weather,” Ororo said softly. Logan patted her hand.

“Remy’s not feelin’ well,” Rogue said and he cast her a sidelong look that told her he wasn’t willing to share.

“Seems like if you’re feeling poorly, you ought to go to bed,” Logan said.

“If I go to bed, I likely won’t get up again for a month,” Remy said. 

“Treadmill?” Logan suggested.

“Don’t work. Got to move someplace.”

Logan sighed, stood up. “I’ll come with,” he grumbled and left the room.

“Sure you won’t run too, chère?” Remy asked, smiling at her. “Not even a bit tempted?”

Rogue fared him with a skeptical look. “Oh, honey, Ah don’t _think so._ ”

He laughed and his hand came to rest in the small of her back. “Oops, sorry,” he said, and snatched his hand away. 

Rogue hadn’t even realized he’d touched her. She smiled up at him. “S’alright,” and she made kissy lips at him. He kissed her pursed mouth. 

“Bleagh, that was wet!” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. She poked him in the side and he shied away, laughing. 

Ororo was holding a mug of tea in her hands, smiling at them. Logan returned, similarly dressed as Remy. “Let’s get this over with,” he told Remy.

“Later, ladies,” Remy said to Rogue and Ororo. To Rogue he added: “Hope I have somethin’ warm to hold onto later.”

Rogue waved him off, wrinkling her nose at him. 

When the two men departed through the back door, Rogue sat down at the table across from Ororo. “How you doin’, sugah?” she asked.

Ororo smiled, her expression peaceful. “I am well, thank you. Likewise, you seem quite happy.”

Rogue shrugged her shoulders and grinned. “‘Ro, of all the folks Ah’ve...touched in mah life, and all their memories, there’s something Ah haven’t got a feel for.”

“And what is that?” Ororo asked, setting down her mug to look into Rogue’s eyes.

“How do you know when you really love somebody?”

Ororo glanced downward, still smiling. Her words did not quite match her expression: “Do you really think you should be asking me this question?” 

Rogue pulled off her gloves, rubbed her hands on her thighs. “Is it forever over with Forge and you? You can’t...forgive him?”

Ororo frowned a little then. “I care for him deeply. But I cannot...I cannot fathom his reasoning behind creating that weapon. Because a thing _can_ be done, does not mean that it _should_.”

“Ororo, if it weren’t for me, that neutralizing gun woulda never got made. If you hadn’t been out for the count after Ah touched you---.”

“You must not blame yourself,” Ororo commanded. “You did not create that weapon. He had no place to judge and find you guilty for your mistakes, which you have more than atoned for. And it was my choice to allow you to touch me. No fault of yours. There is only one to blame.”

“Right,” Rogue said firmly. “Gyrich. Who ordered the weapon made, who shot at us.”

Ororo intended to protest. 

Rogue interrupted: “It’s not the weapon, it’s the person wielding it.”

“It was a betrayal,” Ororo said. “To our people, our race.”

“Could you think of any instance...where a body might _want_ to have that option, the one Forge created?” Rogue pressed.

Ororo’s eyes returned to Rogue’s. Her blue cat eyes closed for a moment. “I pray you would not consider it. But, yes.”

“I will try to answer your question,” Ororo continued. “There is _thinking_ you love someone, and _knowing_. If you have to ask yourself, perhaps you are not quite there yet. I assume you speak of Remy. Quite charming. Very handsome. However, he is not always so forthcoming, not with specifics. He seems to me a troubled person.”

Rogue smiled ruefully. “He’s been looking at the world through a pinhole. Not to say he’s not willing to listen, hear you out, or that he doesn’t empathize. He’s very aware of what other people are feelin’. And he _can_ be argued with and convinced. But he can’t get out of his own head. He’s stuck on what’s happened t’him. Stuff he did.”

To her credit, Ororo didn’t press further. She nodded. “The beginning of love is infatuation. That much is very evident between the two of you, I have no question. Perhaps he is...stuck. But what I have seen in you both, is a change...these past few weeks. Remy, more measured in his responses. And you...Am I wrong in imagining he may have had something to do with that? No longer so afraid of proximity, of someone touching you by accident or on purpose. You are more physically confident, to match your inner strength.”

“Well, thank you kindly,” Rogue said, and made a show of buffing her nails on her shirt. 

“May I embrace you, my friend?” Ororo asked. 

“Sure, sugah,” Rogue said, and stood. Ororo stood as well and approached, arms outstretched. The taller woman wrapped her arms around Rogue, and Rogue’s head tipped forward to momentarily press into Ororo’s shoulder. 

“I have waited a long time to hug you, dear one.”

Tears were leaking from her eyes, but Rogue was smiling, her heart full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sex and violence.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sex.

December, 1997

Remy was having a hard time concentrating on his book. Though he’d read  _ The Martian _ several times before and it was always good for a laugh, apparently even re-reading was too taxing for his brain. Jean, Rogue, and Kurt were decorating a Christmas tree that had been set up in the parlor in front of the large picture window. The room smelled like fresh pine. Outside the window, it was snowing. There was a fire in the fireplace. Sprays of greenery lay atop the mantle. Kurt had attempted to cajole Remy into participating, but Rogue put the kibosh on that, for which he was grateful. From what Henri had told Remy during their last phone conversation, the same sort of thing was going on back home. Henri observed that Charlie Brown’s tree was only slightly less pathetic than the one his wife Mercy had decorated. Remy was getting to feel pretty homesick. The opulent surroundings in which he currently found himself felt like some sort of betrayal to the life he grew up in. Remy briefly entertained the idea of a visit, to sit in Tante Mattie’s kitchen for a few hours. Some of the other X-Men had plans to return to their family homes for the holidays; Hank, Jean, Kitty...Bobby seemed less enthusiastic, looking like he was heading to the gallows. No one had heard much from Scott. 

Remy must have been staring blankly at the Christmas tree for some time, dimly aware of Jean, Rogue and Kurt using their powers to decorate the uppermost branches, untangle lights and add the star on top. Rogue and Jean applauded Kurt’s placement of the tree topper. Rogue looked over her shoulder at Remy, her face half lit in the warm glow of the lights. He admitted to himself by now she was not just a diversion; she was top contender for Remy’s Favorite Person. 

She walked over to him, took his book from his hand and set it onto the hearthstone beside the fireplace. She made a seat for herself in his lap. “No carols, Remy?” she asked. “Not one Fa La La La?”

“I left my mistletoe in my other coat,” Remy told her. 

“Maybe we can go upstairs and get it?” Rogue suggested in his ear.

He turned his mouth to her ear. “Here? In dis house?”

“Mostly empty,” she replied in a whisper. “All of the boys are off somewhere.”

Remy shot a glance at Jean and Kurt. They were exclaiming over ornaments they had forgotten about since they’d last been unwrapped. “Okay,” Remy said, smiling. “You sneak off, then me. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Rogue suppressed a giggle. “That spare room,” she said. “It’ll be cold, but...maybe not for long.”

She extracted herself from his lap and bopped out the exit leading to the kitchen. Remy pretended to read for a few more minutes. Then he left through the door leading to the foyer, sidling past Jean and Kurt. Once out of sight, he dashed up the staircase, down the right-hand hallway to the very end. He opened the door to the spare room. It was empty. 

“Rogue?” he whispered.

The closet doors opened. Rogue was wearing the jacket to the tacky brown suit and nothing else. She sang: “ _ If Ah can’t have you...Ah don’t want nobody, baby!” _

Remy pressed the door closed in a hurry and locked it, erupting with laughter.

She walked over to him. “Happy to hear you laugh, sugah,” she said and moved herself into his arms. 

“‘Preciate you goin’ to de effort, Roguey.” 

Rogue put her arms around his neck, pulled herself up his body and kissed him on the mouth. “Hold me close,” she told him. “It’s cold in here.”

He obeyed, walked backwards to the sheet covered mattress, and pulled her tightly against himself. Remy sat, pulling her legs around his waist so she straddled his lap. Their lips briefly parted as she pulled his shirt over his head. She cast his tee-shirt to the floor, pushed him back onto the mattress, and kissed him some more. His hands ran up her thighs, over her bottom, and up her midriff. She gasped against his mouth. Rogue’s hands moved to his jeans, pulled open the button, pushed down the zipper. She stood suddenly, pulled his jeans off by the legs. He laughed again as she nearly tugged him from the bed. 

“What do you want?” Rogue asked him, straddling his legs again. 

“I would think that’s obvious,” he told her. 

“Ah mean, what do you want to do first, specifically?”

Remy pushed the jacket from her shoulders. “I want t’feel you against me. All of you.”

Her breath came in a burst from her lips. “Ah’ve wanted that from the start.”

Together they moved up onto the mattress, mussing the sheet. Remy pulled her body tightly against himself, enjoying the feeling of her warm soft skin against his own. She molded herself to him. 

“Oh, you  _ are  _ tingly all over,” she breathed. “Will you be on top of me?” 

“You okay with that?” he asked, his face buried in her neck, her hair. She tugged his shoulder, pulling his weight onto her body. He watched her face carefully. Rogue’s eyes were half-closed. She shuddered beneath him, wrapped her legs around his waist. 

Remy sighed out a moan. He kissed her until her mouth and cheeks were scratched vigorously by his stubble. Then kissed her gently where he had chaffed her skin. She moved underneath him, rocking her hips forward. He felt himself slip against her sex. 

She gasped. “Remy---,” her voice had the faintest hint of warning in it.

“We won’t,” he whispered. “Don’t got protection anyways.”

“Ah still want...,” she said, inhaled deeply and moved against him again. He sucked in a breath, he was unbearably close to being inside of her. She continued: “Please touch me.”

Reluctantly, he parted from her. Rogue guided his hand between her legs. He found her with his fingers and she moved against his touch. She urged him to continue, and he found his fingers surrounded with her slick heat. She gasped, then gave a short moan.

“Is that okay, Rogue?” he asked. God, he hoped it was okay, he didn’t want to stop.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. 

He lifted himself slightly to watch her reactions to his ministrations, slowly moved his fingers in and out, and slid his body slightly down to bring his mouth to one of her breasts. Rogue’s vocalizations became more pronounced. 

“Shh,” he half-laughed against her skin. “Shh, someone will hear.” Though the thought of nearly being caught was something that tended to rev his engine, so to speak. 

Rogue pressed her hands to her mouth, muffling her cries. “Oh,  _ Remy! _ ”

“Shh!”

“Oh!” then she whispered: “ _ don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop _ …”

Her hand was wrapped around his length, moving in an uncontrolled rhythm. He tried to suppress his own sounds by turning his face to the mattress. 

“Remy!” Rogue cried. “Ah’m…!” Then quietly at first and suddenly gaining in volume. “ _don’t stop_ _don’t_. _ever!---STOP!_ ”

Remy sat up then, to better see her face, enraptured with her expressions of pleasure. Lips red, parted, eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, cheeks flushed. Her thighs clamped on his hand, he could feel her interior muscles clenching his fingers, so strong. Imagining a time when he might put himself inside of her was almost more than he could bear. He moved to kiss her mouth again when the door behind him was suddenly thrown open, the lock breaking. Remy abruptly found himself tossed backwards into a wall. His breath was knocked from his body. He was startled at the sudden sound:  _ snickt! _ and the appearance of three blades uncomfortably close to his face. His head jerked backwards in response and he banged it against the wall. 

“Wha--?!” he gasped.

“Logan!” Rogue shouted. “What the  _ hell? _ ”

Remy pulled his eyes away from Logan’s claws to look up into the man’s face. Logan was looking at him with murder in his eyes. Remy was experiencing bewildered shock, failing to process what was going on. Rogue was pulling herself from the bed, wrapping herself in the sheet. She seized an old brass lamp from the bedside and threw it at Logan. It struck him in the middle of his back. He blinked, turned on her with a snarl.

“What the hell!” Rogue shouted at him again. “What the hell is your problem!?”

Logan seemed to come back to himself. “Rogue! What? I---I heard you say---!” Logan jabbed a finger in Remy’s direction. Remy dove to the ground trying to avoid the exposed claws. “You said ‘Remy, stop!’”

“You heard  _ wrong _ , ya big dummy!” she shouted, her expression was furious. “Aagh! Ah was so  _ stupid _ ! God forbid anyone get any  _ privacy  _ around here!”

Logan was gaping at her like a beached fish. He sheathed his claws abruptly. The second he did, Remy felt a hot flush of rage. He claimed his jeans from where Rogue had thrown them. Logan was half-standing on them.

“Get the fuck off!” he shouted.

Logan took a step backwards, freeing Remy’s pants leg. “Shit,” Logan said, rubbing his head. 

Rogue took a shaking breath, drawing Logan’s attention back to her. Embarrassed, he stupidly said: “I told you to keep an eye on him, not take your pants off for him!”

Remy recoiled as if slapped.  _ Keep an eye…?  _ He jerked his jeans up his legs. 

Rogue, with a calm and terrifying fury said: “No one gets to tell me...what Ah can, and can’t do...with mah body. Ever.  _ Again! _ ”

Logan had the sense to realize he’d made a grievous error. 

“Ah am  _ not  _ a child. Ah am eighteen goin’ on eighty...or have you forgotten Ah’ve absorbed  _ you _ , Captain America, and who all else!”

Logan raised his hands. “Darlin’, I’m sorry. I just… it was a mistake. But, you barely know --.”

“Ah know plenty! Don’t you tell me what Ah know! Ah’ve had him in mah head too!” she pointed at Remy. He refused to look at either one of them. He found his shirt and yanked it from the floor. 

“And even though we were holdin’ him in a jail cell, and had his hand broke...and what he wanted most was to escape, all Ah heard in mah head was him beggin’ me to run away, so Ah wouldn’t kill anyone! It was his voice in mah mind tellin’ me to come back to mahself!”

She struggled to regain composure, even though tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Ah know you care about me. But don’t try to father me, Logan. We’re friends. Very good friends. You don’t have to take care of me. Ah’ve had enough parentin’!”

Remy marched through the now broken open door, trying to pull his shirt over his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he heard Logan say.

“Why don’t you tell  _ him  _ that!” Rogue ordered. “And say it multiple times! Because Ah know he’ll laugh himself stupid hearing you say  _ ‘sore-y’  _ over and over!”

Once he’d pulled his shirt on, head clearing the collar, Remy was brought up short. Magneto was standing in the hallway. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Remy muttered to himself.

Magneto took in the sight of Remy’s disheveled appearance, then Rogue wearing nothing but a sheet in the hallway beyond. Remy didn’t have a moment to prepare himself for Magneto’s response. The walls along the hall erupted, and he found himself struck with various wires and nails, one of which sunk into his thigh. 

“Stop!” Rogue cried.

Remy pushed back, trying to send the metallic objects backwards and away. Several explosions flowed down the wires within the walls, lighting up the hallway towards where Logan and Rogue stood. Remy heard a pained snarl and turned. Logan was gripping his forearms which looked as if they had been shredded. Blood pattered to the carpet in a steady stream. With a jolt, Remy realized he’d inadvertently set alight all the metal in the hall, including Logan’s very bones. Rogue was flying down the hall, unimpeded by residual explosions; debris bounced harmlessly off her skin. Rogue’s hand reached out to seize Magneto by the wrist. When her hand made contact with his skin, it had no effect. She looked at him, surprised. 

Magneto’s attention was momentarily diverted by Rogue’s contact. Remy pushed himself through time and space to appear behind Magneto in a flash of light, then he took off running down the hall. Remy slid down the curving banister to the foyer, launched himself at the front door and through it. Then he was running over snow in his bare feet, leaping over the main fence, his hand momentarily gripping the top cross piece, inverting himself before landing back on his feet on the opposite side. He thought he heard Rogue call after him, but he was sprinting full out and away from the School. 

He didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Gambit makes plans to get the hell out of Dodge.
> 
> Random reference: Rogue sings a BeeGees song.


	32. Chapter 32

Remy trudged along through the snow, not knowing which was worse, walking on the slushy roadway or walking through the ankle deep snow alongside it. He had a vague sensation that he'd somehow found himself walking through the snow in another lifetime, similarly underprepared, the way he spent most of his life (lives?).

Remy had seen quite a few scenarios play out while looking into infinite possibilities, most of them ending with his abrupt and untimely death. Dead at two, sent to the bottom of a bayou. Dead in a tank in a lab. Dead in a holding cell. Stabbed in the gut with a sword. Stabbed in the chest with a spear. Frozen on an arctic tundra. Blown to unrecoverable pieces. Take your pick. The best case scenarios seemed to end with insanity, with him too oblivious to the current timeline to even form coherent sentences (which were already a stretch for him). He'd resolved, given what he'd seen, to make the most of the time he had and not spend too much time dwelling on the possibilities. Instead, he should spend his efforts on random and nonsensical diversions, making the most of a bad situation. Turn that frown upside-down.

He wasn't too cold. For a while he'd worn a heavy mantle of righteous indignation and wounded victimhood, ranting to himself.

"Keep an eye on me! Oh, really, Logan? Send a woman after me to do _your_ job!"

"' _Ah trust you with mah life!'_ What a load of malarkey! Trust that damn no-fun sad sack sorry sonofabitch Wet Blanket, don't ya? Your trust ain't worth shit!"

"See what's what now that you've got other _options!_ Damn couyon, me! Like I'm de last resort before celibacy!"

Then he grew kind of nauseated about coddling his own anger, like staring too long at the scene of a grisly car accident, without feeling empathy for the victims, just sick fascination. After that, he let go of his anger with a deep sigh and continued walking, letting the wet snowflakes pelt him because he still was a glutton for self-flagellation. Feeling not anger, but instead really sad that he'd lost his kind-hearted lover, his cantankerous friend, and his could've-been home in one fell swoop of stupid misunderstandings and jealousy, like a damned soap opera.

The further he got from the School, the more his headache increased. It got to start feeling like someone was trying to lobotomize the right half of his brain. Remy clutched a hand to his right eye as his vision blurred. He stumbled and fell into the snow alongside the road. He drank in the cold air, hoping to cool his head, stop the rising nausea in his gut.

Remy heard the swish of tires on wet pavement, then a screech as a car stopped and reversed, backed up beside him.

"Hey!" called a voice as the passenger-side window of a late-model sedan was rolled down manually. "Hey, John-Remy whatever your name is!"

Remy looked up to see the reference librarian, Lara, in the car. She was seated in the driver's seat, leaning towards the passenger door. "What the hell, dude? Why are you in the street?"

She shoved open the passenger-side door. "Get in the Da-Nasty!"

Remy blinked and saw the vehicle she was driving was a blue Dodge Dynasty. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, staggered into the car. When he pulled the car door closed after him, he felt his headache lessen significantly.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rough from ranting.

"What _happened_ to you?" she asked, turned on the heater to full blast, and put the car into drive.

"Ugh," Remy said, rubbing his eye. "I think I've been expelled."

"Are you serious?"

"Let's just say, de dean didn't approve my electives."

Lara glanced sidelong at him. "Dude, you're a mess! Are you hurt? I don't see you bleeding. But your clothes are shredded! Did someone put you through a woodchipper?"

"Electrical...not up to code."

"Oh my gosh, I should take you to a hospital!"

" _No!_ "

Surprised at his reaction, Lara sobered, her panic forgotten. "Okay, chill. We'll go to my place."

"I have an apartment-," Remy began.

"Look, I'll feel better if I keep an eye on you. You're super pale and your eyes look weird."

"That's how dey always look."

"No, I mean like glazed, two different colors or something. You're not on drugs, are you?"

"You'd know!"

Lara exhaled, almost laughing. "Recreational use, my friend! Not trying to obliterate my brain cells. I need those babies staying sharp so I can answer random and nonsensical questions! Oh, man, you look like you could use a toke. Jeez, you don't even have shoes!"

"I won't smoke a joint. I will accept a cigarette."

"Those things'll kill ya!"

"How about a drink?"

"Sure," Lara said, pulling into the parking lot of a 60s-era apartment complex. "Come on up."

He opened the car door, stepped onto the frozen pavement. He cringed. By now, the late afternoon sun had been hidden behind low gray clouds. It might just as well have been night. Yellow lights on the outside of the apartment building illuminated the parking lot. "Won't your boyfriend be mad about you bringin' home a half-dressed man?"

"Nah," Lara said, leading him to an exposed stairwell. "I threw his ass out."

Remy padded up the cold metal staircase after her, his arms wrapped around himself. She took him to her apartment door, unlocked and opened it.

"Broke up?" Remy asked.

"He told me he decided he was polyamorous. I told him, he could 'poly' himself off somewhere else."

"Sounds like a real jerk loser...no offense to you."

"Yeah, well, everyone's got a _thing_. I just don't want any part of his." Lara turned on the lights revealing a small living room with a couch, recliner, overfull shelves with movies and books, a variety of potted plants, and a small television set. "Come on in, have a seat. Let me see if I can find you some clothes that don't have holes. I think my ex left some of his shit in the closet."

Remy hesitated before sitting on the couch, as wet as he was. He perched on the edge of a cushion. There were two cats on the couch, one on the back (skinny, black) and one in the center cushion (pleasantly plump, gray). They both stared at him.

"Here you go," Lara said, handing him some gym clothes. "Uhm, he was considerably larger than you. But there's a drawstring."

"Thanks," Remy said.

He moved to stand when Lara exclaimed: "Holy shit, there's like a nail in your leg!"

Remy looked down at his thigh. "Oh, yeah," he observed.

"Doesn't that hurt?"

"Well, now dat you mention it, it's messin' with my chi."

"I should have taken you to the hospital!"

"Nah, nah, it's fine. Look, I need your help pulling it out. I don't do so good with pointy things getting stuck in me."

"Who would!? I'm _not_ pulling that out. You need a surgeon and a tetanus shot!"

Remy sat down heavily and put his head between his knees. "Uggh."

"Okay, don't pass out! Oh, my god, Lara…This is bonkers!" she said to herself.

"Lara, I promise, you can pull it out and it'll be _fine_. I'm a mutant. It will fix itself."

"Oo-oh boy," Lara said, sat beside him. "Okay, if I can put ear drops in Roger's infected ears, then I can do this."

"Your ex-boyfriend's name is Roger?" Remy asked.

"No! My cat's name is Roger. This is Roger, right here. That one on the back is Siskel."

"I can feel them judging me already."

"Polydactyls see, two thumbs up."

"I get it."

"Okay, pulling out the nail now." Lara put her fingertips to the nailhead and closed her eyes. "Oh, my god, I should wash my hands, get some hydrogen peroxide or something!"

"Lara! Just take it out!"

"Aagh!"

"Aagh!"

"It's out, it's out!"

Remy flopped back onto the couch.

"Are you sure that didn't hurt?" Lara asked, looking at the long, bloodless nail.

"Well, it didn't feel good!"

"How is your leg healed? What is that glowing stuff?"

"Some kinda energy-aura...thingy. I don't know. Physics!"

" _Why_ did I fail that class?"

"I thought you said you got a D?"

"You said this was some kind of a construction accident?"

Remy drew a shaking breath.

"Someone _did_ this to you?" Lara said incredulously.

"You got to keep your voice down, chère. I got a headache."

"John-Remy, you have to call the police!"

Remy shook his head, he was laying back against the couch cushion. Siskel put a paw on his shoulder in commiseration. "Callin' de police...would have negative ramifications on de others involved."

"There are others involved? Are they hurt?"

"No, well. Yes, but. He has regenerative healing abilities too."

Lara dropped the nail onto the coffee table. "This is all kinds of messed up."

"Is it? Or is it just what it is?"

"It's _not_ okay, okay is definitely _not_ what it is!"

"Maybe in your world, chère."

"You can't go back there," Lara told him. "This is some crazy level of abuse!"

"It was an accident," Remy told her. "A misunderstanding."

"Just because you-I mean, I am guessing based on hearsay...Just because you are all mutants, doesn't mean you have to-stick with your own kind!"

" _A boy like that, who'd kill your brother...Forget that boy, and find another. One of your own kind. Stick to your own kind!_ " Remy sang flatly.

"Cute, _Westside Story_."

" _How_ are you single?" Remy asked.

"Don't go back to that school. Sometimes you have to just make your own family, when the premade one doesn't cut it," Lara said. "Are you going settle for some wacko who'll put a nail in your leg over a misunderstanding?"

"I think you might be right. I have overstayed my welcome there."

"Good. Forget that place. It's not worth the unrelenting debt of higher-education."

Remy sighed. "You said there'd be drinks."

Lara considered him. "I have a half a thing of Fireball, and wine from a box."

"How old are you?" Remy asked. "Like, nineteen?"

"I'm thirty. Newly single. Living with two-to-five cats, in a one bedroom apartment on 27K a year. Living the dream."

"It doesn't sound too bad t'me."

"I might be able to see things in a different light, via your perspective," Lara suddenly brightened. "Oh, I know!" She abruptly departed for the kitchen. Remy used the opportunity to change his clothing in the hall bathroom.

When Lara returned, she had a bottle of wine and two tumblers. "So, my parents gave me this last Christmas. Made me feel adult. Cab. Er. Net."

"Cabernet," Remy said, taking the bottle. "Dis actually ain't too bad."

"So now you're a wine aficionado."

"Sommelier?" Remy offered.

"Bad news, I don't have an opener. Any ideas?"

Remy concentrated on the air inside the bottle between the wine and the cork. He fed a slow charge into it. The cork slowly emerged. When enough was exposed, he pulled out the cork with a soft pop. "Et, voila!" he said, handing her the bottle.

" _Dude_."

" _That's_ what impresses you?" Remy asked.

Lara poured two tumblers full of wine. Handed Remy one. "Cheers," she said.

Remy took a large swallow, Lara a smaller one. She coughed.

"Wow, that's...robust," she said.

"I'd say 'full-bodied.'"

"Oh, so me and this wine have a lot in common," Lara observed.

Remy laughed. "I like it."

"I thought you were making fun of me, when you asked me out."

"Why?" Remy asked, his brow wrinkling.

"Because I'm all like...this," she gestured to herself. "A nice personality, some might say."

"You look nice t'me, chère."

"So what's up with 641.5 then? Recipe for Romance?"

"Enh?"

"The hot girl. Who likes cookbooks and pulp romance? Is she your girlfriend?"

"Better not call her my girlfriend, my wife'll get mad."

"Ha! Okay, your people might call her: ' _La Rawr Rawr_.'"

Remy laughed.

"So...no answer?"

"No, I'm just as confused as you are."

"All right, let's find something else to do. You like movies? These two do," Lara said, pointing to the two cats.

"Sounds good," Remy said. He took another sip of the Cab.

"I got something funny," Lara said. She selected a VHS cassette from her shelf and brought it to the player. "Do you like crazy heist movies?"

"Chère, we are vibratin' on de same wavelength."

Lara pressed a cassette into the machine. Kevin Kline's character Otto, having found the jewels he'd intended to steal all ready stolen, announced: " _What do you have to do in this life to make people_ trust _you?!...People are always takin' advantage of me!_ "

Lara and Remy laughed.

Kline/Otto: _You pompous, stuck-up, snot-nosed, English, giant, twerp, scumbag, fuck-face, dickhead, asshole!_

John Cleese/Archie: _How very interesting. You're a true vulgarian, aren't you?_

Kline/Otto: You're _the vulgarian, you fuck!_

Lara and Remy howled. The wine in the bottle was gone. They moved on to the box.

"Okay, what's next?" Lara asked, holding up two VHS cassettes. "DeNiro...or Spacey?"

"Keyser Söze, first. Then _Heat_."

"Good, got to get my Val Kilmer in before bed."

~oOo~

After a nutritious breakfast of Lucky Charms, Lara agreed to drive Remy to his apartment.

"You're not going to go back _there_ , are you?" she asked with concern, meaning the School.

"I got to. Some of my stuff is there. My mode of transportation."

She made him promise to call her at the Reference Desk later that day, since she was working the afternoon and evening shift. "If I don't hear from you before nine, I _will_ call the cops."

Remy promised. At his apartment, he packed his few belongings. He realized he'd have to completely rebuild his thieving kit from scratch. He had resolved to return to New Orleans. He called Henri to inform him of this.

Henri was delighted with the news. "Be seein' you before Christmas, then?" he asked. "Here Mercy'd already sent you something in de mail. You'll miss it."

"You don't got to be spending money on me, Henri," Remy said, slightly annoyed. But also a little happy.

Henri let out a short laugh. "Remy, things have _changed_ 'round here. I'll let poppa tell you in person. It's gonna be different when you come home."

"Different, how?"

"Different, better. Can I tell 'em, or do you want to surprise them? Tante Mattie will flip."

"I'd better not come as a surprise," Remy told him. "When I show up unexpected, things tend to go downhill fast. You best tell 'em. It'll take me a bit to ride down. Weather's...not so good up here. Maybe like t'ree days?"

"You okay?"

"I'll be okay."

"Eh, bien. See you soon."

Remy gathered the various papers and photos from his research on the X-Mansion. Robin was outside, burning lawn debris. He joined her by the fire, tossed the documents onto it.

She regarded him askance. "Clearin' out?" she asked.

"Weh," Remy said. "Thanks, Miz Robin. For de place. It was real nice while it lasted."

"I should give you your security deposit back," she said.

"I'd rather you spend it on your grandkids. Buy 'em something useless, bright, and loud."

Robin cracked a smile and Remy felt victorious. "Be back in a bit to collect de rest of my stuff. Got to stop by the...got to pick up a few things in town before I head out."

"Merry Christmas, then," Robin said, staring at the fire.

"Joyeux Noel," he told her, waved, and walked back up the driveway towards the garage.

He was wearing his running clothes, his sunglasses, and the roads were clear, so he started to jog. The snow had stopped, and everything, tree limbs, houses, stone bridges, was covered in a soft blanket of sparkling white snow. As he ran past a stone wall, a pair of horses wearing red blankets trotted alongside him, Currier & Ives style. Pretty as a postcard. Remy turned up Graymalkin Lane and slowed. He took the path alongside the front gate. His pace slowed to a walk. Hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, he approached the rear of the School. Remy stepped up onto the patio. Someone had shoveled it clear of snow, the shovel was still beside the back door. He approached and knocked.

Logan pulled the door open, stared at him with his mouth open for a moment. "You...you're that college kid who jogged up the path that day."

"You only just now figured dat out? Was casing de joint," Remy told him.

"What're you doing?" Logan demanded.

"Just came for my stuff, my bike, then I'll be gone. You can toss my bag out on de lawn if you like."

"I meant, what are you doing, knocking on the door?"

Remy stared at him through his dark lenses. "Seems y'didn't like me breakin' in de last time."

"Get your ass in here," Logan commanded.

Remy stepped into the warmth of the kitchen. It was Saturday, so the remnants of a big breakfast were scattered on the kitchen island, on the table. The place smelled like French toast and coffee. Logan, Ororo, Piotr, Kurt, Betsy, and Lockheed were at the kitchen table. Lockheed was licking a plate with maple syrup on it. Remy wondered if Kitty was with her family, since Hanukkah was soon to start on the 23rd, only days away.

"Sit down," Logan said. He poured a mug of coffee and set it before the same chair Remy had been sitting these last few weeks.

"Don't think so," Remy said, and moved to leave the kitchen.

Ororo reached up a hand and placed it on his arm before he could pass by her: "Please, sit beside me. Warm yourself a moment."

He relented, sat down and wrapped his hands around the coffee mug.

"Where you been?" Logan asked.

"I don't owe you any explanations," Remy informed him.

"Rogue and I went to your apartment looking for you," Logan said. "We found your trail. Looked like you up and disappeared. We thought you'd exploded yourself!"

"A perfectly mundane vehicle outta de late-80s picked me up. The Da-Nasty."

Logan half growled, half sighed. "Look, Remy…I'm-."

"Don't mention it. I'm perfectly happy never thinking about it again. Where is de Wet Blanket? So I know where t'avoid him?"

" _Magnus_ is in his quarters," Ororo informed him. "You will certainly be receiving an apology from him."

"I won't hold my breath."

"Are you hungry, friend?" Piotr asked. "I believe there is one serving remaining. Rogue had set it aside, just in case."

"Well, now you're makin' me question my decision-makin' skills, comrade."

"Good," Ororo said. "You will stay."

"No, already told my brother I'd be home before Christmas. I'm expected."

"Then you will return afterwards."

"No, sorry."

"Please reconsider," Ororo pleaded, her hand, still on his arm, squeezed slightly.

Piotr placed a plate in front of Remy. He smiled briefly at the man, reluctantly removed his sunglasses. His head was still pounding. Maybe too much wine?

"What happened to your eye?" Betsy asked.

"Migraine 'r something."

"You should check in with Doctor McCoy," Kurt insisted. "I can bring him here!"

"That's a negatory, good buddy," Remy responded. "Not gonna happen."

"Remy, you must continue on with us. You need to learn to control your mutant abilities," Ororo said.

"I need to _de-escalate_ my mutant abilities," Remy said. "Think I got a lead on that route. It'll be my New Year's resolution."

"You can't think to rid yourself of your powers," Ororo said, aghast.

"Well, not de full set," Remy conceded.

Ororo shook her head. "Instead, learn to control what is a part of you. You cannot simply...pick and choose!"

"No, I had someone do that for me!" he responded heatedly. "Someone already messed me around!"

"What are you talking about, kid?" Logan asked tiredly.

"Found some crazy study on mutants. Funny, I should find an entry matchin' my same birth year and a reasonable approximation to my birth month-."

Remy paused: "No wonder my horoscopes never made any sense! I'm an Aries, not a Taurus!"

Betsy clapped her hands. "Remy. Focus."

Remy shook his head: "Subject had my same power set. So, you want to know my _real_ name? One Nine Seven Six Zero Four One Eight Male A Alpha B-C Omega D Omega! Really rolls of de tongue, enh? Couldn't just give me a normal name, like James, or something."

"You can't be serious," Logan said.

"Why would I make somethin' dis like up? I'm pretty creative, but dis is real off de wall."

"It's gotta be a mistake. You're-jumping to conclusions! You've done it before!" Logan insisted.

Ignoring him, Remy said: "So I know de who, de when, and de where...but not de what, how or _why._ "

"I am willing to trust your instincts, Remy," Ororo said. "But if the evidence you have uncovered involves mutant research, then we must consult Henry. We will attempt to hail Charles."

Remy's headache suddenly increased tenfold. He roughly pushed the plate away, the smell of it turning his stomach. He covered his eye with his hand. His vision blurred at the edges, lights were dancing in his right eye. Betsy stood, alarmed. He was handed a glass of water, which he accepted with a shaking hand.

"The infirmary, I think," Betsy said.

"Not unless you think you can do it," Remy told her.

"Do what?"

"Fix whatever's broke in me," he said.

"I don't-I don't know what you're asking me for."

"Said in Jean's file, Xavier stopped her telepathy," Remy said, his voice quiet.

Logan made a sound of protest.

"A telepathic suggestion. Not something that applies to suppressing or removing mutant abilities. He simply made her forget," Ororo said. "I do not believe that would work in your case."

"No," Betsy said slowly, then speculatively: "But maybe a telekinetic…a very powerful one…"

Remy laughed bitterly. Of course, he thought. Candra could give powers, as she had to the members of the Assassins' Guild. She could probably just as easily take them away. He muttered to himself: "Ah, I get it now. I'm de butt of some cosmic joke. Ha ha. Good one."

He drained the glass of water, set it back on the table. "Well, it's been fun, kids." Remy stood and left the table.

There was some commotion behind him, which he ignored as he went through the foyer. He trotted up the main stairwell to the second floor. The hallway was very much a wreck. He pushed his way into the dorm he'd been assigned, pulled his belongings from beneath the bed, began grabbing stray items and shoving them into his travel bag. All he really wanted was his uniform back, Pretty in Pink. His coat, from the closet. A toothbrush would probably be a good idea, too. Remy turned from the closet to walk to the bathroom he and Bobby had shared. Remy would not miss the scent of body spray.

As he turned, he saw Logan standing in the bedroom doorway. His sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, arms crossed over his broad chest. Remy eyed him carefully. He seemed none the worse for wear. "Sorry I charged your bones...or whatever it was I did."

Logan shook his head impatiently. "It was an accident."

"Weh, an all too frequent one. You survived. Kurt's among de living. Worthington, not so lucky."

"Warren...made his own choices. It could've been a lot worse, you don't know. The Morlocks, most of them escaped."

"Not de families."

"Their killers are dead. Don't tell 'Ro this, since we don't endorse killing, but you won't hear me crying over their graves."

"The killers wouldn'ta been there if not for me," Remy said.

"Explain, _now_ ," Logan said, his gaze like steel.

Remy sat on the edge of the bed. "Sinister found dem in my head, somehow. Knew every one of them murderers. One of them...he was something like a friend. I took de whiskey bottle out of his hand. Cleaned him up some. He was sober. His hands were steady when I left. Just so he could take aim at those people. Little kids."

Logan's face was unreadable. "And Creed?"

Remy's mouth twisted. "No friend, no way. Him and I met when I was seventeen. He killed de girl...I was foolin' around with. Dropped her off a building. She broke like a China doll."

Logan's posture changed, his arms fell to his sides. "He's a-fucking monster."

"No arguments here," Remy said, his voice raw. "Still, were it not for me, she wouldn't have been done like that. Or maybe he woulda just killed her outright instead of dangling her like a cat with a mouse. Because I had to make him look a fool, for my own stupid selfishness, he wanted to make an example outta me. She died, and it nearly cost my brother his life, too. So, that was the first time we tangled."

Logan looked tired then. "Do I want to know the next?"

"Sure, lemme put it all on de table. Second time, he's chasing me up dis Alpine slope. I was runnin' out of mountain and he was hot on my tail. Set a time-delay charge on a narrow bit of outcropping. Blew him clean off de mountain. He fell, I dunno, maybe two miles? He cussed me out de whole way down. I learned some new combinations I hadn't thought of. I laughed and laughed. Left me with a pretty good memory, actually. Mebbe he's not all bad."

"Kid, you can't be blamed for what those murderers did."

"You're entitled to your opinion. Could be...I might've pushed 'em all over de edge," Remy zipped his bag. "I'm gonna get."

"Get where? How do you know you won't end up hurting someone again, unintentionally? 'Ro is right, you need to do something."

"I intend to. Just, not dis second. I know my perfectly reasonable behavior is deceiving, but you'll have ta believe I am not as even keel as I seem. Got to wait for de storm to pass first."

Logan attempted to block his exit. "You're not making sense."

"Logan," Remy said quietly. "Please."

Logan sighed, relented. "Not even going to say goodbye to Rogue first?"

"No. Rather not have to admit t'myself I'll never see her again."

"You can't..." Logan gave up, sighed.

"Just another diversion, Logan," Remy said, hating himself for saying it.

Remy made to move past Logan into the hall, but he paused and turned. Remy pulled a pen from his coat pocket. He consulted his sleeve, produced a playing card with a flick of the wrist. He looked at it, smiled grimly: Three of Spades. Three of Swords (Three of Claws?). Meaning: change of plans. Splitting yourself in two. To Logan, reversed: optimism, forgiveness. To Remy, upright: heartbreak, grief. The card was meant for Logan, not Remy. Should be okay.

Logan looked confused, and Remy scribbled on the face of the card, turned it over to Logan. "That's my address in New Orrlins. My sister-in-law sent me a present in de mail. If you don't mind sendin' it back."

He continued: "Also, if you want to visit. I can show you around town."

Logan considered the address. "Alright. Always up for a trip to the Big Easy."

"Decide to come at Mardi Gras, I'll show you de proper way to do it. Fais du Courir de Mardi Gras. None of dat Bourbon Street nonsense. Hope you don't mind dressing like a woman or chasin' chickens. You might have to ride a horse."

Logan half smiled. "Haws."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the cause of Remy's headaches and the pain of more to come.
> 
> PS - non-consenual stuff in the following chapters. Not graphic, because that's not my style. Just giving you a head's up.
> 
> references:
> 
> Lara's cats are named for Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert, two film critics.
> 
> The movies Remy and Lara watch are A Fish Called Wanda, The Usual Suspects, and Heat.
> 
> That's a negatory, good buddy - Convoy


	33. Chapter 33

He extended his limbs for the first time in nearly two months, enjoying the sensation of filling a corporeal form, pulling on extremities like comfortable form-fitted clothing, fingers and toes like gloves and socks. There were any number of differences between his previous body and this one. He had lost his ability to control his form at a molecular level, having sacrificed it to commandeering the boy’s uncontrollable power fluctuations. The superhuman strength and energy projection too, both gone. Replaced with something better; limitless power, chronal manipulation, and an internal flux of energy that prevented terminal injury. His own telepathy and telekinesis remained, however. As they should have been part of the boy’s powerset from the start. That was the flaw in the nearly perfect subject he’d procured twenty-one years ago. 

Not procured, to be precise. The infant had been turned over quite willingly by his biological father. An arrogant, well-connected and moneyed man, the all-too human father failed to recognize the potential in his own progeny. Taken from the mother’s breast, the man’s mistress, who had hidden both the pregnancy and the birth of the boy from him. She had wailed at the loss of her son. Essex himself claimed the infant, along with a substantial donation to his project, when the subject was just over a week old. Initial tests proved the subject would grow into an interesting array of powers, limited in strength. But with the adaptations they’d begun, the subject would achieve almost infinite potential. The child had certain constraints, however, in the psychic/mental category. The chronopathy the subject would someday inherit would likely result in insanity without a telepathic ability to manage visions of multiple timelines. But the CT scan and MRI suggested a shadow on the brain behind the child’s eyes. It seemed as though the infant had been shaken at some point, likely by the father. 

Mueller was willing to smother the original (happily, eagerly), and start again from scratch by cloning an uninjured subject. Their cataloguer and archivist suggested further tests, the possibility the child might recover, potentially develop a different way to cope with the trauma. Mueller preferred a controlled test. The subject was a wildcard and should be destroyed. Essex was curious to have both the original and a clone, and observe the variations. He was deeply, deeply desirous of the subject’s power and what it would mean to be in possession of it. But prior to the subject being placed in a stasis chamber, the infant was rooting about, looking for the comfort of a mother. The archivist took him away to be held and fed. He would remain content and sleeping afterwards, she told them, for further scans. Essex would not see the child again for fifteen years. The archivist, Irene Adler, never. She absconded with the subject, destroyed the research, the subject’s genetic profile and samples, and vanished.

Essex was now in full possession of the boy, mostly a man by now. Possessed of both his body and his mind. It was a fortuitous accident, as many scientific advances were; the discovery of penicillin, for example. An accident resulted in his fusion with LeBeau; they’d struggled for control and the man/boy’s energies, while weakened temporarily, took hold of Essex’s malleable body. Then both his and LeBeau’s mind’s defenses were pierced by Ms. Braddock, and with the sudden transition to an intangible state via the young Ms. Pryde, Essex found himself filling in the blanks, so to speak. And when LeBeau was once again in a more or less solid physical state, Essex found himself disguised in the man/boy’s skin. Hidden in an internal vault, where he had been mistaken for some horrifying memory and not a separate consciousness. The man/boy spent so much time arguing and wrestling with his own spinning thoughts, another voice seemed not to alarm him in the least. 

LeBeau’s vault was truly a place of inspiration. During their encounter in Seattle, Essex had been immediately drawn to the treasure trove from Hell. The only stable place inside the thief’s chaotic mind. He drew from it a host of horrific monsters, suitable for carrying out his specific mission. Essex knew of the thief from two previous encounters, the earliest for Essex, when LeBeau was an adult and Essex only just beginning his storied career well in the past. At some point, LeBeau would travel to the past, whether under his own power or another means, unknown. The second encounter, nearly a hundred years later, he’d enlisted the newly minted boy-thief to procure a diary from a Weapon X facility. 

Then Essex caught wind of LeBeau’s sudden ejection from his safe-haven in New Orleans and the rumors of his various activities amongst the very powerful and affluent. Indeed, it was almost humorous to note that LeBeau had encountered his biological father on several occasions and was none the wiser. No doubt Candra had gleaned some amusement from that. Candra had divided the boy from the protection of his family, possessed as they were of various magical wards and defenses. She likely had intentions not unlike Essex’s own for the thief. Taking cue from her machinations, Essex devised plans to alienate the thief from any others he may ally himself with, friends, family, and especially the X-Men. Leaving LeBeau but one option, to seek out and obey Nathaniel Essex, and him alone. 

Finally, finally, after recent weeks of biding his time in the X-Mansion, the man/boy was left on his own. He had been forever in the company of some other person, in a house full of fellow mutants. He slept during the day when the household was awake, roamed about at night under the suspicious, jealous eye of the Master of Magnetism. Spending every other moment in the company of the woman or the degenerate animal man. Essex had assumed control as soon as the thief had extracted himself from the X-Mansion. Internally, the man/boy was at war with himself, desperate to keep at bay the massive storm of depression looming on the horizon like an incoming hurricane. Essex had recovered his unsuspecting victim from his meditative state where he’d hoped to be safe, and dragged LeBeau’s consciousness back to his own vault. Essex locked the man/boy there with only his nightmares for company.

Truly, there were some interesting savings stored in the vault, providing Essex with much insight. The most valuable, a memory from the man/boy’s teenage years. In it, the boy stood before the Guild Benefactress Candra, to be judged for some failure. She caressed his young face, the angular planes of his features still hidden under the softness of childhood. The boy’s adoptive father stood at the younger LeBeau’s side. Jean-Luc extended a protective hand to his son, pushed him a pace behind himself and away from Candra. 

“Give me your hand...your right,” Candra said, her voice soft yet cruel. 

When the child shakily extended his hand toward her, she gave a mocking laugh. 

“No, not yours, you stupid boy,” she said and turned her gaze upon Jean-Luc. “I meant your father. For his failure in teaching you. For your failure to learn. He will mete out the punishment.”

Jean-Luc rolled up his sleeve, exposing his right hand and wrist. He presented his lightly clenched fist in Candra’s direction. The younger thief was already shaking his head, wanting to protest. Jean-Luc silenced him with a glance. Candra grinned, took Jean-Luc’s hand gently between her own, and abruptly flayed the skin from the back of the man’s hand and knuckles with a precise slash of her telekinetic powers. Jean-Luc let out a hiss of pain and nearly fell to one knee. The child-thief screamed and wept and begged. Essex realized that he could attack LeBeau’s body and psyche to little effect. The man/boy was, if nothing else, very resilient. But if he attacked those closest to him, it would leave a significant impact. 

He used this knowledge as inspiration for flaying Wolverine’s skin from his bones. Sending the man/boy into a spiral of panic and self-doubt, the dark storm now battering his coastline. Driving him away from the X-Men, as was Essex’s intent from the start. Wanting to create a permanent wedge between the thief and Xavier’s band of mutants, Essex conceived a plan to put the thief in charge of his Marauders, to make him privy to a heinous and unforgivable act. When that original scheme fell through, a backup plan was enacted (Essex had several, each more horrible than the last), one in which the thief would unwittingly leave the back door open to the X-Mansion. The party of young mutants, to be slaughtered amidst their macabre decorations in their fantastical costumes, a gruesome and too real parody of All Hallows’ Eve. But the Marauders, bereft of a true leader, fell into their independent, base, mercenary ways. Instead of following orders and destroying the New Mutants, they fell all over themselves to chase LeBeau...which Essex had expressly forbidden. Apparently, Gambit was too tantalizing a reward, and the Marauders had a child’s instincts towards delayed gratification. When presented with a treat, they could not resist devouring it. 

Essex was forced to admit there was something irresistible about owning even a portion of Remy LeBeau. He laughed, something he had not done in some time, feeling the expansion of breath in his chest, the flex of muscles in his abdomen. He was laying on the mattress in the careworn apartment over the garage, feeling the sensation of soft fabric against bare skin. As he moved his arms across the bed coverings, it stirred a pleasant scent. A soap, detergent of some kind, and the smell of the woman, Rogue. He drew the pillow to his face, breathed deeply of her smell, her sex. 

It was a combination of having lived so long in a body, while perfectly serviceable, lacked a certain degree of sensation; and the sensuousness of his new form, one that throbbed with awareness and energy. In his previous body, he could detect scent, but only to fulfill scientific purpose rather than olfactory enjoyment. He could feel no pain, but likewise felt no pleasure. Now every sensation seemed to be experienced tenfold. As his hands explored the folds and textures of the blankets, he found they strayed to his own body, which he’d stripped of the bizarre assortment of garments his body’s previous occupant had donned. He examined his new body quite thoroughly with his hands. There was a great degree of pleasure to be found there, clumsy with inexperience at first, but which came to an abrupt and fulfilling end. Having sated the sensations smell and touch for now, he should proceed to the next line of inquiry. 

He ran his tongue over the back of his own hand, tasted the salt on his own skin. The skin he now owned, anyway. Essex sat on the mattress, his eyes roving over the small dwelling. He moved to the refrigerator and opened the door. He found nothing but an orange box of sodium bicarbonate. He tasted that as well and grimaced. Drank water from the tap. All at once, he felt a sensation he had not felt in years...hunger. There seemed to be nothing in the apartment to eat. He would have to venture out of doors. 

Before that, he would test his auditory functions, to discern if there was any difference between his old body and new. A radio produced a squall of modern jazz. He quickly moved the tuner to something more acceptable to his ear. Finding a frequency carrying classical music, he increased the volume to the point where sound distorted. He was rewarded with the sensation of music seeming to reverberate through him. Essex imagined a performance of live music to prove far superior in sound quality and physical reception, sound waves passing through him in rhythmic vibration. 

Essex opened the door to the apartment. His bare skin was met with a blast of icy air which pebbled his flesh. While he could maintain an internal temperature using his new abilities, it would require expenditure of some effort and he was not inclined to cause himself physical discomfort. The sight of bright sunlight on white snow was blinding. Ocular oversensitivity to bright light, it seemed. Perhaps a condition of having a small formless brain jostled about as an infant. Essex resolved to seek out the man/boy’s biological father and kill him. 

He consulted the thief’s store of clothing, little of which seemed suitable. Essex found a formal white shirt, incongruous amongst the jarring colors and tendency to favor the color pink. A pair of form-fitted trousers of some kind, while tight, offered significant protection. Perhaps they were a remnant of a uniform. The belt, he did not approve of. Lastly, he found a pair of black, heavy-soled boots. Consulting the interior of the boot, he found the sizing to be that for ladies’ wear. The boots did fit, regardless. The brown jacket was the only option for outerwear. It smelled of cigarettes, exhaust, his own body, and that of the woman. The combination was interesting if anything, and the coat was comfortable at least. The scarf was actually of high quality, as were the gloves. The hat was serviceable, but that was all that could be said of it. Sunglasses were in the coat pocket.

Appointed for the weather and sunlight, he departed for the small town, boots crunching on gravel and ice. The juxtaposition between warmth of his clothing and the cold on his exposed face was not unpleasant. Essex made his way into town, enjoying the sensation of walking. Typically distances were more efficiently traversed via tesseract portals. The expenditure of effort on motion however, seemed to improve both emotional and mental acuity. At a small diner, he telepathically communicated a desire for breakfast. There was some disappointment while surveying what the Americans felt constituted as morning repast. The tea he was presented with involved pre-portioned bags of stale leaves. He instead requested the waitstaff’s less desirable but highly effective coffee. A second serving of bacon was demanded. Essex departed the diner as if he had never been there at all, invisible in his telepathy. He proceeded down the street, heading in the direction of the library.

He was taking sadistic delight in his torture of Remy LeBeau. He had physically moved the man/boy like a white knight across a chessboard, placing him in a vulnerable position. His own black queen slid forward to take him, the sacrifice. Now, as the most powerful piece on the board, and riding the white knight’s own steed, he was poised to take the black king in an act of treason. The king who had just begun to mount his own forces; the king Essex had served in forced faithfulness. LeBeau knew nothing of this, of his prophesied future. Of razing the Earth of degenerate, lesser beings...making it pure for Essex’s own new race. Or of the king and his four horsemen, the final one only recently claimed. LeBeau instead preferred obliviousness and willful ignorance. It was quite shocking how close LeBeau had come to finding out the truth about his origins. Essex had decided to punish him for his curiosity. 

Standing outside the library, he considered his options. Even he was reluctant to destroy an institution of knowledge. The inhabitants however, were expendable. The rotund drug-using spinster, the male genetic dead-end, the barren and arthritic old woman. Yes, that was it. He would not destroy the library, merely the children’s section and its cheerful denizens. He was speculating which load bearing feature to destroy to bring down the lower level when he was presented with an even better opportunity to irrevocably destroy LeBeau. 

The woman, Rogue, was walking down the sidewalk towards him with a curious expression on her face. She held a white paper bag from the pharmacy in her hand. A delicate English rose she was not. Wild hair, full-figured, lacking in stature, horrible annunciation, she was certainly not to his taste. But she would make a good example. He formed a vivid image in his mind of what he planned to do with the woman. Deposited the image in the vault with the young thief. LeBeau would not know if it was a true memory, locked in the vault as he was. Essex did not discourage him from believing it to be true. Later the man/boy would experience the vision a second time, this time, not in the mind, but in reality. 

Essex resealed the vault door on the thief’s echoing pleas, his tears, his screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Rogue knows who she is and what she wants. And what she wants is to kick some ass.
> 
> A/N: Thanks readers for your comments. Several mentioned they felt sorry for Roguey. And I thought: why? She's the only adult in the room! Then I thought, maybe that's my fault as an author. So I have made some changes to subsequent chapters to give Rogue's voice more clarity. I think it made for a better story, so thank you for the feedback!
> 
> Also, I have a poll for you. With the last chapter, I will post an excerpt of the next book at the end. Your choice: you can have a ACTION preview, a ROMANCE preview, or a SEXY preview. Let me know what you want to see!


	34. Chapter 34

Rogue was eighteen years old. At least on her outsides. On her insides, her best guess was several centuries. Hundreds of years worth of memories; both Wolvie and Cap really added to the tally. While know-how and experience and most memories would fade, the very essentials of what made a person a person, those things settled down into the crevices of her mind. They plagued her with guilt, shamed her for what she’d taken. Until recently.

Ororo was of the opinion it was Rogue’s insides that were stronger than her outsides. Rogue had thought of herself as a steel magnolia, strong outer layer covering a fragile flower. But why not steel through and through? Beautiful and strong. Delicate but sharp. When Ororo touched her on that riverbank in Caldecott County, she gifted Rogue with a piece of herself. Not just her powers, but the essence of Ororo, a life lived with gratitude and grace. From Logan, a life lived honorably, with resilience and integrity. From Avengers Captain America and Ms. Marvel; a life lived in service, life lived in confidence. Even from Remy’s mixed up head, a reminder to live life remembering who you really are, knowing what makes you,  _ you _ . 

And don’t forget to have a lot of fun while you’re at it.

Rogue was doing these mind-shadows a disservice. Trying to forget them, casting them away because they reminded her of what she’d done. She should take her own advice, learn from the past, and move on from it. She shouldn’t forget what she’d learned, squander what she’d stolen as if they were things to be discarded. These things should be treasured, not wasted. Rogue could be stronger for it, not afraid of them, or herself. 

When Ororo had hugged her in the kitchen, Rogue hadn’t hesitated to return her embrace. She’d put her arms around her friend, rested her forehead on the taller woman’s shoulder. Then she saw her hands were bare where they were resting on Ororo’s back. Rogue had forgotten to put her gloves back on. Rogue had felt both the softness of Ororo’s loosely woven sweater and the smoothness of the skin beneath. She had smiled while tears fell. 

_ Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion. _

Rogue was in the drug store making a purchase. She’d purposely stood in the line with the older male clerk, even though the queue was longer. Once at the checkout, she dropped a box of condoms onto the counter. She looked the man in the eye, daring him to say anything to her. The clerk rang up her purchase without comment. Instead of putting the box into a nearly transparent drug store plastic bag, he put the item into a white paper bag typically used for prescriptions.

Handing her the bag, he said: “Have a nice day.”

Rogue smiled. “Oh, Ah will!”

She marched out the exit and onto the sidewalk. Rogue passed the bank and the diner, peering inside the glass windows hoping to spot Remy’s familiar mop of hair and brown coat. She was disappointed. She and Logan had walked into the fading twilight the night before, following Remy’s footprints in the snow. The trail abruptly came to an end. Logan assumed the worst, either alien abduction or that Remy had spontaneously combusted. Rogue thought it was more likely that a Good Samaritan, probably a woman, had spotted an extremely handsome young man in dire straits alongside the road and had stopped to pick him up.

They then went to his apartment and found it empty. Rogue considered asking the landlady, Robin, if she’d seen her tennant. But Robin was even more cantankerous than Logan, which was saying something, and Rogue didn’t want to needlessly worry the woman. As it turned out, she had gone. Probably visiting her grandkids. Remy would return to the X-Mansion eventually. His coat was still in the closet, Loretta in the garage. 

Just after she’d helped prepare and serve breakfast, Rogue departed the X-Mansion to wander through the town library. She did not see the voluptuous librarian with the big eyes Remy had so casually flirted with. She found the bicyclist they’d seen on the street the day Remy’d chopped off most of his hair. He was in the computer lab overseeing a patron being placed in handcuffs by a sheriff’s deputy. The patron protested loudly, saying he was a tax-paying citizen and had the right to look at whatever he wanted on the computer. 

“Yes, tell that to the folks at the sex offenders’ registry!” the librarian said waving sarcastically. “Uh,  _ buh-bye _ now!”

“Thanks, Curtis,” the deputy said. “Be seeing you.”

“Hopefully next time for research assistance, and not all this!” Curtis waved his hand at the offender in a dramatic way. 

Rogue watched the deputy and the offender depart, then turned to the librarian. “What was that all about?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, all in a day’s work. Seems like they forgot to tell me how many perverts show up in public spaces when I was getting my Masters.”

Rogue smiled in a sort of half-incredulous, half-concerned way. “Uhm...well. Ah. Anyway, have you seen...mah---friend---the boy with the hair and the sunglasses, brown coat?”

Curtis regarded her archly. “The last time I saw him was when he had his face stuck to yours.”

Rogue fared the man with a glare. 

“Is he alright?” Curtis followed up. “He hasn’t gone missing?

“He just had a rough night is all,” Rogue responded. “If he turns up, do you mind calling up to the Xavier school?”

Curtis looked at her sidelong. “Uhm, no. Sorry. We don’t report the whereabouts of our patrons, right to privacy and all that. Unless of course, they’re  _ engaged in criminal activity! _ ” 

Rogue almost laughed. 

She’d had a sleepless night. Mostly concerned about where Remy had run off to. Also, pretty mad at Logan (he should have ended up in the lake, it was a good thing he apologized), and completely irate with Magnus. He insisted he was only protecting Rogue, and accepted no blame. Rogue rather loudly declared that thanks to being invulnerable and super-strong, she could protect herself. And if Remy  _ had _ done what was insinuated, then she would have easily kicked him into orbit herself. 

Rogue thought Carol might weigh in on the whole “Fudge the Patriarchy” thing, but she had been strangely silent recently. Maybe with Rogue’s newfound confidence inside and out, embracing the mind-shadow, they could be copesetic. Or maybe Rogue wasn’t such an easy target now, and Carol had grown bored with antagonizing her. Rogue was formulating a hypothesis that Carol was actually the embodiment of her former fear and self-hatred made real by her mutant powers, and not Carol’s actual personality. The real Carol Danvers  _ was _ out there, alive if not well, living her own life. When Xavier returned, Rogue would have to bring it up. 

In any case, Rogue was glad Carol was silent, and not biding her time to jump out unexpectedly at the worst possible moment, as usual. Her being quiet for once was a blessing because Rogue was also preoccupied with the thoughts of what she and Remy had been up to before they were so rudely interrupted. She didn’t know it could be like that. Not like a romance novel, it was a lot more real and raw. Instead of being afraid and holding back, she’d only wanted to push down her boundaries. It felt incredibly good to let go, trust Remy entirely. It was very, very rewarding. She felt terrible about what happened afterwards. She thought maybe she’d feel embarrassed, but she wasn’t, not about anything she’d done. Rogue was just furious on Remy’s behalf. And also, it was supposed to be  _ her  _ turn next! She was so looking forward to making him make that sound in his throat when she did something he really liked. Rogue had definite plans for making it up to him.  _ Privately!  _ Which is why Rogue went to the pharmacy to make her purchase. 

It was a surprise to find the object of her fantasies standing on the street corner just after she left the pharmacy. It was almost as if she’d conjured him there. Rogue approached him slowly. Remy looked a lot more put-together than he usually did, his knit hat pulled down over his ears with the ends of his hair curling around his jawline, usual sunglasses on his nose, gloved hands in his pockets. His coat was buttoned, the bright blue scarf neatly wrapped around his neck. She saw he was wearing the bottom half of the X-Men uniform and tall black boots. 

“Remy?” she said as she neared him. “You okay, sugah?”

His smile was thin, coldly arrogant. If you didn’t know Remy at all, you could assume his usual expression was one of bemusement, arrogance or disinterest. Really, it was just him being internally preoccupied with whatever was going on in his head at the time. The current look on Remy’s face was something different. No warmth, no engagement.

“Quite well,” came his reply.

“We were worried about you,” Rogue said. “Where were ya?”

His mouth twisted into an uncharacteristically cold sneer. “An outdated apartment, sleeping on an uncomfortable and fur-covered settee. With several malodorous felines.”

Rogue blinked. “But you love cats...? Sugah, are you sure you’re feelin’ well?”

“Perhaps it is a lack of proper rest.”

“Or you’re grouchy ‘cause you’re hungry? You want t’come home for some breakfast? Ah saved you a plate.”

“I have eaten,” Remy said.

There was something very strange about his clipped answers. He must be really mad. Though when he got mad, his words usually came out a lot more crooked. 

“Are you wearin’ Storm’s boots?” Rogue asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did ya steal ‘em?”

Remy regarded his footwear. “So it appears.”

“Here Ah thought there was honor amongst thieves.” Rogue sighed, her shoulders fell. “Remy...you want to go somewhere quiet and talk? Ah’m really sorry about yesterday. Whatever Logan said about me keepin’ an eye on you...that wasn’t the reason Ah wanted to be around you all the time. Ah really care about you.”

She couldn’t read his expression behind his dark lenses. “Yes. Let us go somewhere private. And  _ talk _ ,” he finally said and immediately started off at a quick pace, expecting her to follow.

“Hey, slow down!” she said and trotted after him. “Whatever happened t’smelling the roses?” 

“The only flower I am interested in, my dear, is yours,” he said in a mocking tone.

Rogue punched him in the arm then, hard. He turned to look at her, his expression slightly amused. Rogue felt a hot flash of embarrassment then. She had an inkling from the start that Remy was fearful of her striking him. He didn’t wince or shy away from Danger Room scenarios or wrestling around on the grass during a football game. But he would flinch if Rogue raised a hand to him, even in jest. She suspected it was due to whoever had put that mark on his back. 

“Sorry,” she said, still angry. “You’re just bein’ rude. Ah shouldn’t ‘a hit ya.”

“Perhaps our stroll can continue in silence,” Remy suggested. “So there will be no more misunderstandings.”

Rogue kept pace beside him then. He made no effort to take her hand or arm. His expression, when she looked at him in profile, looked closed, distant. Rogue began to really fear for him then. Maybe he’d gotten really hurt and she just couldn’t see. Maybe Logan was right and he did get abducted by aliens. Maybe he was a Skrull. 

They walked up the drive towards the apartment, climbed the wooden staircase. At the landing, she was invited in. Again, in a mocking sort of way with a bow and him extending his arm in a flourish to beckon her inside. Rogue stepped into the apartment. It had been cleared of all papers, movies and books. Everything was spartan, empty. Only the bed was a bit rumpled. Rogue turned to look at Remy as he shut the door firmly and locked it.

“You wanna sit on the couch?” she asked. “Or, what’d you call it? A  _ settee _ ?”

Instead of an answer, Remy reached forward and plucked the white paper bag from her hand. He examined the contents and laughed, not in a jocular way, but a short scoffing bark of a laugh. Rogue’s expression hardened. 

“Quite the strumpet, aren’t you,” Remy said, not really asking. “To throw yourself at the first opportunity that comes along. My dear, do you not realize that Monsieur LeBeau favors those things that do not come so _easily_? That when provided an easy and straightforward path, he will undoubtedly turn to the most difficult and circuitous road instead? Perhaps next time you should _‘play_ _hard to get_.’”

Rogue was absolutely frozen with a cold wash of fear and dread. Remy-not-Remy removed his sunglasses. His eyes were bright red, not the deep black and crimson eyes she was used to. His expression was like a cold mask, betraying no emotion. 

“What. Did you. Do ta him?” Rogue said haltingly, her voice throaty with fear. “Where’s  _ Remy _ ?”

The man before her grinned a thin-lipped smile and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Oh, he is here, yet. I have allowed him to observe. Quite angry. Such  _ foul language. _ ”

Rogue said, staring into Remy’s eyes: “Remy, sugah, if you can hear me, Ah’m sorry.” She raised her fist and sent it flying towards the man’s face.

An inch before contact, Rogue found herself frozen in place. Her whole body was rigid, caught in a telekinetic hold she could not break free from. She opened her mouth to scream, but her jaw would only open so wide. The sound she made was more of a mewl. The man leaned close, put his face mere inches from her own. His eyes looked into hers, studying her as one might study an insect under a magnifying lens. The man’s hand moved to cup the back of her skull. He drew himself closer and pressed a hard mouth into hers. Rogue let out an outraged scream against his lips. 

The man withdrew, looked at her skeptically. “That was not nearly as satisfying as I had hoped,” he said with mild disgust. “Perhaps we should proceed to the next step.” The man divested Rogue of her coat, grasped the collar of the sweater she wore, and tore it in two. She would have jerked in surprise if she could move. The man looked at her critically, placed a cold hand on her bare stomach and shoved it down the front of her jeans. 

“Your skin is nearly indestructible, and your strength formidable, but this does not grant you permission to simply ingest every sugar and carbohydrate you find,” he said. “You will find men prefer women who maintain. Who are delicate in carriage and appearance.”

Rogue’s teeth ground together. “Who.  _ Are _ . You?” she hissed. 

“We will not be so long acquainted, Rogue,” the man said with feigned sincerity. “Perhaps a few hours. Long enough to ensure the thief is suitably cowed, perhaps broken. As someone who only recently regained the ability to experience discomfort, you have my commiseration. I imagine our brief time together will be quite painful...for you.” 

The man may have prevented her from moving, but he did not stop her furious tears from flowing. “Let him go…” she said, almost a growl. 

“I will. I will let him _ go into that good night _ , but none too gently. I informed LeBeau he would live to regret his decision. I am making good on my threat. Regret will be his final experience.”

Rogue was freed of her sweater, her torso bare but for her bra. 

_ No _ , she thought, her body trembling with defiance.  _ You will  _ not  _ hurt me. I won’t let you.  _

The monster who was not Remy placed his hands gently on her shoulders, let his hands travel down her arms, then back up.

Her skin may have burned, but not so bright as the fire in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Gambit does NOT get his security deposit back.


	35. Chapter 35

There was a police cruiser outside the gate at the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters. It was late, and the headlights shone up the wet pavement towards the mansion. Ororo and Logan conferred with one another briefly before buzzing the officer through the gate. The vehicle drove slowly up the curving driveway to park in front of the staircase leading to the main entry. The front facade of the house was lit by porch lamps, candles in each window, and twinkling white holiday lights strung on bushes and trees. Ororo and Logan watched the sheriff step from the cruiser, place his broad-brimmed hat on his head. He fiddled with the radio on the front of his brown coat, then walked to the rear of the cruiser where he let a big dog, a Belgian Malinois, out of the vehicle.

“Well, this should be fun,” Logan said.

The civil servant and the dog then began climbing the steps towards the school. Ororo opened the front door for him. 

“Good evening,” she said. 

The man nodded slightly. “Good evening, ma’am...sir. Is Doctor Xavier available?”

“I am afraid he is away on a personal matter,” Ororo informed him.

“May I ask who is in charge of the School at this time?” the sheriff continued politely.

“You may address me,” Ororo said. 

The man paused a moment, taking in Ororo’s appearance, noting the mohawk and black leather. 

“What brings you to our doorstep on this chilly evening,” Ororo prompted.

The sheriff shifted. “Ma’am, do you mind if I stepped inside? You’re right, it is a bit cold.”

“Of course,” Ororo said and opened the door more widely. 

The sheriff and the dog entered to stand in the foyer as Ororo shut the door. The man cast his eyes about. The banister was strung with garland and a large fir tree stood nestled in the curve of the staircase. The dog sniffed towards the office door, wagged its tail slightly. Logan eyed the dog warily. The canine licked its nose and looked at him, ears pricked, but demeanor calm.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the officer said. “Looks like you’ve got the place decked out for the holiday.”

Logan was impatient with the small-talk. “Are you looking for a charitable donation? Because we took some gifts down to the station two weeks ago for the Christmas drive.”

“We appreciate that, sir,” the sheriff said. “I’m here on a civil complaint.”

“Then what’s the dog for?” Logan asked.

The sheriff didn’t directly answer the question. “Is there a man calling himself ‘Remy’ here? Or perhaps ‘John’?”

Ororo blinked. “Remy, yes. I am afraid he is not here at the moment. Is he...wanted for some purpose?”

“I had a report of an alleged assault on your premises,” the sheriff told her. “A concerned party reached out to me. I wanted to invite the young man down to the station. To see if he wished to press charges.”

Logan’s mouth opened and closed. “We’ll send him your way if he turns up,” he finally said. 

The sheriff looked at Logan skeptically. “This is a quiet neighborhood,” he began. “When I receive complaints, nine times out of ten, it’s about this School. Now, I understand if you value your privacy and need your space. Perfectly willing to give you  _ all  _ the space you need. But when a member of this community comes forward, one who has an instinct for picking up on when people are in trouble, then I am inclined to believe her. She told me she’d found the kid on the side of the road, with a nail in his leg and his clothes shredded. Do you have an explanation for that?”

Ororo’s lips compressed. “My apologies, sir. We are also concerned for our...student’s welfare. He was here just this morning, but has made the decision to return home.”

“That’s convenient,” the sheriff said, his voice flat.

Ororo continued: “We sincerely appreciate your visit. I am afraid we do not have any further information at this time.”

“You don’t mind if I take a look around…?” the sheriff began. Logan made to immediately protest when the dog let out a bark, looking at Xavier’s office door.

The sheriff looked to see what had caused his canine to react. 

“Here,” Logan said suddenly and produced the playing card from his back pocket. “Here’s the kid’s address. This is where he went.”

The sheriff’s attention returned to Logan. He looked at the playing card. “New Orleans, hunh? Well, I don’t blame him for heading to warmer weather. You wouldn’t happen to have a phone number?”

The dog barked again. Logan shot Ororo an alarmed glance. The office door opened. The big dog panted, gave a tiny leap. A reddish-brown canine pushed through the office door. She looked about, spotted the police K-9 and trotted forward.

“Easy there, Chip,” the sheriff told his dog. “Wow, that’s some dog. Looks part-wolf. What is it?”

Ororo said quickly: “We are not entirely certain.”

“Ah, adopted then. She friendly?” the sheriff’s expression had turned soft and amicable.

“Very,” Ororo said. She eyed the young New Mutant, wondering what the girl was up to. In her wolf form, she was known as Wolfsbane. As a young girl, Rahne Sinclair. 

The two canines sniffed each other, then Chip lowered his forequarters in a show of play. “Ah, come on then, boy. No flirting. You’re on the clock,” the sheriff said with a grin.

Wolfsbane leapt up to put her forepaws onto Logan’s chest, looking him in the eye. She glanced downward. There was something tucked in the holiday bandana tied around her neck. Logan removed it, a scrap of paper. On it was a note: ‘Henry. Brother.’ And a phone number. Logan guessed the area code was for New Orleans. 

Logan cleared his throat and lightly pushed Rahne down. “Down, girl,” he said awkwardly. “No jumpies.” He fished in his pocket again, making a show of finding the scrap of paper. “Yeah, phone number. This is the kid’s brother.”

The sheriff accepted the phone number, returned the playing card. “Alright. I’ll be following up. This kid of yours---?”

“He is a young man, twenty-one,” Ororo said. 

“Hm, yeah. Okay, young man. He in his full mental capacity? He’s not, needing some help, able to act on his own faculties? No designated legal guardian?”

“No, nothing like that,” Logan said. “He can take care of himself.”  _ Mostly. _

The sheriff nodded. “Alright. Just want to be aware of any odd behavior. In case one of my people runs into him.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ororo said. “We wish only for his safety.”

The sheriff nodded. “We’ll keep an eye out. You happen to have anything your student may have left behind, something that he might’ve used? I brought Chip along on a practice run. Our newest tracker. He’s a newbie.”

Ororo hesitated a moment before turning to the staircase. The sheriff took a knee and held out a hand to Wolfsbane. She obliged him by allowing the man to scratch her scruff. “You look like you’d make a good recruit,” the sheriff told her. “Clever lady, aren’t you?”

Ororo returned from her trip upstairs with a folded pillowcase. “Here you are,” she said. 

The sheriff took the cloth. “Thank you, ma’am. C’mon, Chip, enough with the goo-goo eyes. You folks have a Merry Christmas, if I don’t see you before then.”

Ororo smiled and closed the door. When the cruiser pulled back down the drive and turned onto Graymalkin, they turned to the office door. Magnus stepped from the room into the foyer.

“I’m going to go back out to his apartment,” Logan said, pulling his tan suede and fleece coat from the hall closet. “See if I can’t catch him before he takes off.”

“I will join you,” Ororo said. 

“I would like to know what Gambit told this informant,” Magnus said, “who would send the local law enforcement to our home. Do you think this is his idea of a joke?”

“You can stay here, hold down the fort,” Logan told him. “ _ We’ll _ talk to Gambit.”

Outside on the front step they decided to take a vehicle into town. Logan was willing to run through the woods to get there, but he guessed Ororo might come to regret her inability to fly or control the weather. In the garage, they noted that the car Rogue typically used was missing. Remy’s battered bike had departed with him that morning. 

“Rogue has been absent since just after breakfast,” Ororo murmured. “I wonder where she could be? Last minute Christmas shopping?”

“That seems like something she’d do,” Logan said. “Unless she’s out looking for Remy, too.”

They took the Jeep Cherokee, since it had four-wheel drive and the roads were getting slick in a fine mist of sleet. They drove into town, the colorful lights of holiday decorations reflecting off the wet car windows.

“You did not mention Remy giving you his address,” Ororo observed.

“He didn’t seem too keen to share it. Wonder how Magnus ended up with his phone number?”

“A good question.”

Logan nearly missed the driveway leading to the apartment Remy had rented. He backed up and reversed into the drive. They could see a light on in the room above the garage. “Looks like he might still be here,” Logan said. 

The pair stepped from the Jeep. Walked up the driveway towards the steps. The main house beyond the garage was dark. The garage door itself was open, Remy’s bike was inside. Otherwise the garage was empty. Logan put his booted foot to the first step. His sensitive ears detected a sound, like an injured animal. He cast his senses about. He smelled Remy...Rogue too. He didn’t know what to make of the sound. It came again. 

“Wait here,” he told Ororo. Slowly, Logan climbed the staircase. The sounds grew louder as he approached the door. He swallowed. 

Were those kids fooling around again? Like a couple of rabbits, those two. Logan shook his head. He thought to descend the stairs when he heard a scream. It did not sound like an “Ah’m having the time of my life” kind of scream. It was more like an “Ah’m in a considerable amount of pain” situation.

Wolverine cautiously peered through the window in the door. He did not like what he saw therein. With a growl, he kicked open the door. It broke from the hinges to fall into the apartment. His claws sprung from his knuckles.

A low light emitted from a nearby lamp. Remy sat on the end of a bed, his ankles crossed in a display of casual disinterest, dressed in a white shirt, dark uniform, black boots. Rogue was on the bed, lying immobilized and missing half of her clothing. She appeared to be very badly burned. Remy appraised Wolverine coolly. “It appears you have caught us once again, en flagrante delicto,” he said in a bored tone.

“Logan!” Rogue screamed from the bed. “That isn’t---.” 

“Do be silent. I find your voice grating on the nerves,” Remy said, and a burst of white and pink energy crackled over Rogue’s inert form. She screamed again.

The sound made the hair on Wolverine’s arms stand to attention. Filled with rage, he threw himself at Remy. Wolverine found himself quickly flying in the opposite direction, falling over the back of a couch to crash into the coffee table, destroying it. 

Wolverine was instantly back on his feet. He did not leap a second time, but stared hard at the man before him. Remy’s eyes were no longer black and red, but bright and pupilless. That morning, it seemed only one of his eyes had blown out like a broken taillight. Now Wolverine was starting to realize it was an indication of something seriously amiss. This man’s pattern of speech sounded entirely wrong. Remy’s words leaned against one another like companionable drunks. This man’s words were clipped, annunciated, and stood like a regiment of soldiers. 

“Who are you? Sinister?” Logan guessed. “Or is it Essex?”

The man smiled at him coldly. “You may address me as the former. The latter I reserve for my...patients.”

“What did you do to Gambit?” Wolverine asked, stalling for time. 

“As I informed your female compatriot, I have taken possession of the thief’s body. He remains, for now, within my mind---a prisoner.”

“How? How did you do it? We thought you were destroyed.”

Rogue was struggling on the bed and Sinister’s attention was momentarily diverted. “Be still. I do not wish to kill you just yet. It is a pity I failed to delay my own gratification this morning,” he shook his head ruefully at himself. “Not that I would have gained any satisfaction from you, other than what your misery would mean to LeBeau.”

Wolverine knew he stood little chance of taking Sinister on in combat. He’d seen what Gambit’s powers could do, what they did to the bodies in the Alley. “How did you do it?” he repeated. “You’re some kind of telepath, too?”

Sinister returned his attention to Wolverine, but his expression was one of distraction. Rogue kicked a foot and sent a pillow flying to land at Sinister’s feet. 

“Vulcan mind meld,” Sinister-not-Sinister said abruptly. “Now I have Pa’nar Syndrome.”

A look of intense fury passed over Sinister’s features. “You---idiotic... _ juvenile--- _ .”

“ _ I want chicken, I want liver, Meow Mix, Meow Mix, please deliver! _ ” Sinister-not-Sinister sang. 

Wolverine watched with confusion as Sinister put his hands to his skull, made a sound of disgust and irritation.

“ _ Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow! _ ”

Rogue attempted to sit upright and collapsed onto the floor. Wolverine thought if he could reach her, she could absorb his healing abilities. Sinister stood between them, however.

“Remy!” Rogue called in a raw voice, coughed as her voice cracked. Wolverine saw her throat ringed with bruises. “Fight him off!”

“You will return to your vault, you stupid boy,” Sinister hissed. 

Remy stood abruptly straight, placed a hand over his heart and recited in perfect Parisian French: “‘Et je m'en vais...Au vent mauvais. Qui m'emporte. Deçà...delà. Pareil à la,’” he bowed his head in a show of dramatic sorrow: “‘ _ Feuille morte’ _ .”

“Your suffering will continue,” Sinister informed him. “There are any number of victims. Your father? Your brother? Your dear, devoted  _ wife _ ?” 

Remy ignored him, extended his arms to his sides and in quick rapid speech fired: “The-devil-up-in-yo’  _ grill  _ and you  _ still  _ don't-even  _ know ’em _ !... _ Show ‘em _ ..who's the  _ OK _ ...Like collard greens and  _ hoe _ cakes...I got soul, that's something..that you ain't  _ got _ . That's why your style is  _ rot _ \--ten!”

Wolverine was carefully inching around Gambit now, or whoever was in control. He appeared to be locked in an internal struggle that caused him some paralysis. Wolverine was still several feet away from where Rogue lay. She looked up from the floor. One of her eyes had swollen shut. Her lips were covered in blisters. She wore no shirt, and her bra hung loose on one shoulder, her breast exposed. Her jeans had been pulled halfway down her thighs. Wolverine felt sick, wondering how long this torture had transpired. He had half a mind to stab Sinister in the back now, doubting somehow that Gambit would mind. Wolverine reached toward Rogue. Sinister spotted them. His focus was no longer diverted on two opponents, but the both of them together. 

“Shit,” Wolverine said and was promptly blasted through the window nearest the door. Wolverine sailed like a burning comet to the ground below, hitting the ground with an explosion that shredded his clothing, took portions of his skin from his body. His hair was on fire. Wolverine doused himself in snow, injuries burning as he began to heal. He had to get back up into the apartment. He had to save Rogue. 

Wolverine had a moment to realize the Jeep was gone from the drive. He just had to keep Sinister occupied for a few more minutes. He leapt and landed halfway up the wooden staircase, launched himself back through the window above. Sinister was dragging Rogue by the hair to some kind of glowing portal. Wolverine leapt onto his back, his weight driving Sinister’s appropriated body to the ground. Wolverine stabbed his claws into Sinister’s shoulder, pinning him to the floorboards. Light blazed from the wounds and Wolverine quickly felt his metal claws grow painfully hot. His flesh began to cook from the inside out. Wolverine thought to plunge his other set of claws into the man’s skull. He wondered if that would mean Gambit would die. Likely, being controlled by Sinister was no way to live. He raised his fist. Rogue caught him from behind. 

“Please, don’t,” she begged. 

Sinister threw Wolverine from him and he landed atop Rogue. She grasped his bare hand in her own. Wolverine felt her powers kick on, she was absorbing him. At least it would give her a chance to heal, to be able to fight back. He rolled himself away as Sinister stood over them. Once again, he seized Rogue, silenced her with a jolt of energy through her arm. She hung limply in his grip and he proceeded towards the portal. 

The dormer window exploded inwards. Sinister paused for a moment just before he was struck with a telekinetic bolt. He staggered backwards, Rogue was jerked across the floor. 

“Ah,” Sinister said with a gloating grin. “It is the original. Returned from the dead. How...delightful.”

Marvel Girl tore the dormer from the roof, floating above the scene below. “I have him,” she said, and Sinister was momentarily frozen. 

“You do not,” he said and slipped through space. Rogue’s limp form seemed to stretch, but then slid through space as well, following him. 

From the yard below, Wolverine heard Shadowcat cry: “Fastball special!” and she was flung through the open doorway. Shadowcat landed on the wooden floorboards and ran towards the portal, phasing through Sinister as she did.

“Kitty!” Wolverine called a warning. But Shadowcat did not pass through the portal. Instead she turned in a roundhouse kick to pass her leg across the door. The thing flashed and with a shower of sparks, deteriorated. 

“Ha ha! Mechanical!” she declared and punched the air. 

“Ah, cripes,” Wolverine staggered to his feet.  _ What if the damn thing had been magical? Or something else? Her leg could’ve been off! _

Sinister made to strike Shadowcat, his form glowing suddenly a bright white. She sank through the floor and out of sight. A humming rumble shook the apartment. Sinister turned back towards the open doorway. Outside, Magneto floated in midair, hands to his sides, inviting an attack. Sinister finally relinquished his grip on Rogue. He turned to meet the Master of Magnetism. His red eyes blazed. 

“Miss Jean Grey,” Sinister said. “I advise you to create a telekinetic barrier and protect yourself. Your cohorts are about to meet a very final and gruesome end.”

Then Sinister’s form lit up entirely, blindingly white save for his eyes, like two red pits. Sinister strode forward towards the open door. Wolverine attempted to throw himself at Sinister once more, but found himself rebounding off of an energy field. He was forced backwards and out onto the wooden staircase landing as Sinister marched forward. The glowing mutant came to a halt just before the broken doorway. Marvel Girl was attempting to waylay him again with her telekinesis. She let out a scream of effort, her hands held like open claws at her sides. 

Sinister glanced behind, smiled. “Do not despair, my dear. Your friends will experience a glimpse of the infinite before they are destroyed utterly. I have ---.”

_ “A lovely bunch of coconuts!” _

Sinister momentarily dimmed and staggered backwards.

“Stop--!” Sinister snapped.

“ _ In the naaame of looove!” _

There came an angry snarl and Rogue, now with some of Wolverine's abilities and partially healed, threw herself across the room to crash into Sinister from behind. Wolverine had a fraction of a moment to leap from the wooden staircase to land in the snow below. Rogue propelled Sinister to the ground, face-first. An arc of light burst from Sinister, sending Rogue flying end over end into the garage. The cinder block wall buckled and Rogue landed on the ground as debris rained down around her. Colossus, who had thrown Shadowcat through the doorway earlier, ran to where Rogue had fallen. Wolverine suddenly felt his bones vibrate and ache. Colossus, in his metal form, staggered. Sinister and Magneto were locked in a battle now. Crackling bolts of explosive kinetic energy flared over Magneto’s protective field. The yard and surrounding woods were lit in strobing flashes of light. Wolverine was forced back. Colossus returned to his non-metal form, and pulled Rogue from the wreckage, trying hard not to touch her exposed skin. Wolverine could not see where Marvel Girl or Shadowcat had gone. 

The energy field around Magneto had begun to close in on him, nearly crushing him. Sinister stared Magneto down, face expressionless in concentration, his focus entirely on Magneto. 

“You have been a thorn in my side from the start,” Sinister informed Magneto as he found himself constrained in a smaller and smaller space. “I will thank you, however, for driving LeBeau from the house. For finally giving me the opportunity---.”

Gambit announced: “There once was a Doctor from  _ Essex _ , Who had no sense of professional  _ ethics _ . Sold his soul for a  _ farthin’ _ , His cock in the  _ bargain _ . Now he can’t pass on his  _ genetics _ .”

Again, Sinister was distracted, infuriated. 

Magneto pushed back, giving himself space to move. 

“Get away, y’damn fool!” Gambit told him.

“Not just yet,” Magneto said as Sinister assumed control. Once again, the two powerful mutants grappled in midair. Magneto grimaced: “My purpose...is to serve as a diversion.”

If Sinister was capable of showing surprise, he would have done so then. Suddenly, Nightcrawler appeared in front of Sinister, and Wolverine could see the elven man was protected by a TK shield from the volatile energies surrounding him. He slapped something against Sinister’s chest, pressed a button, and with a cheerful wave, vanished just as quickly as he’d appeared. Sinister fell from the sky, hitting the ground on his feet. He fell to his hands and knees. From out of the shadow of the garage, Storm dashed forward, seized the back of the inhibitor harness and locked it behind Sinister’s shoulders. Before he could turn on her, Storm had already danced back and away. Sinister staggered and fell to his side as the inhibitor engaged. He landed in the snow and Wolverine leapt upon him. 

Hands gripping Sinister by the shoulders, he snarled into the man’s face: “Let. The kid. Go.” 

Sinister’s expression was one of fury. He struggled under Wolverine’s considerable weight. “I think not. If you wish him to live, you will release me--- _ now _ .”

Wolverine raised Sinister up by the shoulders and slammed him back into the ground. He raised a fist and unleashed his claws. “Let him go, or you’ll get a taste of what you did to Rogue.”

Sinister drew in a breath, but it was Gambit who spoke. “Logan, finish it!”

Wolverine hesitated for a fraction of a moment. “Sorry, Remy,” he said quietly before driving his fist into Gambit’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: “Don’t be mad. At Logan,” Remy said. “I asked him. To.”
> 
> Random References:
> 
> Vulcan Mind Meld - Star Trek
> 
> Meow Mix jingle, obvi
> 
> Chanson d’automne is a poem by Paul Verlaine.   
> Translated final verse, which is way prettier in French:   
> And I go.   
> In the ill wind  
>  Which carries me  
> Here, there,  
> Like the  
>  Dead leaf.
> 
> Devil up in your grill, Lyrics from Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, OutKast
> 
> Lovely Bunch of Coconuts by Danny Kaye
> 
> Stop in the Name of Love - Dianna Ross & the Supremes
> 
> There once was a doctor from Essex - Original dirty limerick by Remy LeBeau


	36. Chapter 36

Rogue screamed as she watched Logan’s clawed fist come down. She tore herself from Piotr’s grip, flew towards Logan and pulled him away. Remy jerked forward a moment, still caught on Logan’s claws before he slid free. Three holes over his heart poured blood. Rogue pressed her hands to the wounds. Blood seeped between her fingers, she knew too, that blood was pouring from matching holes in his back. Jean was suddenly descending from the loft above. The stream of blood slowed and stopped as from a distance, Jean used her telekinesis to staunch the flow. 

“Remy,” Rogue sobbed. “Oh no, oh no...”

His eyes blinked open at her, looking their normal color again. 

Rogue turned on Logan. “How could you do this?” she screamed.

Remy’s hand blindly sought hers. “S’okay,” he said, blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “Had t’be done.”

Save for Jean, the rest of the X-Men gathered close. 

“I vill bring Gambit back to the mansion!” Kurt announced. 

Rogue made to grasp at Kurt’s arm, to borrow his powers. They could  _ both  _ go. But then Ororo said: “Kurt, you cannot use your powers within the field. Save your strength to make your way to X-Factor headquarters. Bring Henry. We need Jean’s help to prevent Remy from bleeding to death. Piotr, can you place him in the vehicle?”

Kurt vanished in a burst of brimstone and Colossus moved forward. Rogue staggered away from Remy to give Piotr room to maneuver. When he was hefted from the ground, Remy’s head lolled to the side. He looked up at the loft over the garage. “Good t’ing I didn’t...get my deposit. Back.”

Rogue saw the Jeep at the end of the driveway. She hurried towards it, pulled open the door and climbed into the backseat. Behind her, she heard Logan tell Ororo: “Find the kid’s coat. The keys to the bike. You follow behind the Jeep with Jean. Stay close.”

Piotr passed Remy through the door to Rogue and laid him in the narrow back seat of the Jeep, half on Rogue’s lap. She situated him as best she could before climbing over the center console to assume the driver’s seat. Logan looked down into the Jeep. “Piotr and I will follow on foot. Meet you back at the mansion.”

Kitty slipped into the rear, holding her hand to Remy’s chest while sitting on the floor behind Rogue’s seat. Magnus sat in the passenger seat, closed the door. From behind them, they could hear Ororo start the Harley. Rogue turned the key that had been left in the ignition. Struggled to restrain herself from mashing her foot on the gas, knowing she’d have to wait for Ororo to follow. Wishing instead she could just fly Remy home, but with the inhibitor on, there was no other way.

Rogue squeaked out of the drive and onto the icy road, the rear fishtailed. Magnus shot her a warning glance. None of them had their powers at the moment, Rogue could easily put them in a ditch. As she started towards the mansion, Remy coughed wetly. 

“Think I prob’ly...need a priest,” he told Kitty.

“Ssh,” she told him. “It’ll be fine. Just keep still.”

Remy struggled to draw a breath. Rogue’s hands gripped the wheel, her teeth ground together. 

“Don’t be mad. At Logan,” Remy said. “I asked him. To.”

Rogue let out a strangled sob. 

“Focus on driving,” Magnus told her. “Remy. Please conserve your strength. Do not engage with Rogue. She needs to concentrate.”

“Only…’cause you said.  _ ‘Please _ .’”

Magnus sighed tiredly through his nose.

“Do me. A favor,” Remy said to him.

“Yes. What is it?” Magnus asked, perhaps humoring Remy so that Rogue could drive.

“Can you call. My father. Jean-Luc…? Tell him---I said. I was sorry.”

“I will let him know you have been injured. You may apologize to him at a later date.”

“If...you failed t’notice. My co-pilot’s...personality. Leaves s’mthin’. T’be desired. Doubt he’ll...keep me ‘round. Long.”

“You’re going to talk yourself to death!” Kitty scolded him.

Remy was silenced by several coughs and a rattle in his chest. Rogue was turning into the school's driveway, the Jeep slid and nearly clipped the gate. She brought the vehicle to a skidding halt in front of the main entrance, threw herself from the Jeep. Ororo was not far behind on the motorcycle. Jean climbed from her place behind Ororo. 

“I can carry him inside,” Jean told Rogue. “Can you go down to the infirmary? Please bring Elisabeth.”

Rogue nodded and ran. She felt as if she were moving through a surreal nightmare. The glimpse of Remy she saw before dashing inside showed her that his face was pale in the warm glow of the Christmas lights. His eyes were closed. Her distress was enough to bring Betsy to her. Betsy called the elevator to the ground floor for Jean before running down the staircase after Rogue. It seemed everyone save Rogue was capable of thinking ahead. In the infirmary, they met Hank. He looked disheveled, perhaps having just been woken from sleep (or teleported in multiple jumps from the city to Salem Center). Kurt was seated on an empty bed nearby, looking exhausted. 

“Where is---?” Hank began. He looked at the blood staining Rogue’s front. She was in a total state of undress. Betsy handed her a hospital gown, which Rogue put on robotically. Betsy tied it in the back for her. 

“Jean and Magnus are coming down the elevator with him now,” Betsy told the doctor. 

It seemed Rogue had blinked her eyes very slowly, for when she opened them again, Hank was standing over Remy where he lay on a hospital bed. Hank’s expression did not convey confidence. “I think we will have to remove the inhibitor field,” Hank said. “It’s his best chance.”

“Sinister will not hesitate to kill us,” Magnus said. 

Rogue stammered: “He won’t…he won’t come out.”

Magnus looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“He won’t want to be in pain. So long as Remy’s hurt. He’ll keep himself hid,” Rogue said and approached Remy. Hank had placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, hooked him up to a heart monitor. She didn’t need the equipment to tell her he was dying. “Ah can unlock it. Jean can protect the school in case of a fallout. You can get everyone else away from the house.”

“He is capable of killing you, invulnerable or not,” Jean told her. 

“Ah’m well aware,” Rogue said quietly. “Just everyone go. Ah’ll give you a couple minutes.”

Magnus turned and departed with Betsy, who assisted Kurt through the doorway. As Betsy left, she called out a telepathic signal for the students to evacuate. Jean stood as close to the bedside and inhibitor as she could without interrupting her telekinesis, Hank just behind her. Behind her on the monitor, Rogue could hear Remy’s heart rate plummeting. Then he stopped breathing. She reached out to deactivate the inhibitor. She set her opposite hand on his chest, feeling it sticky with his blood. With her other hand, she disarmed the lock. For a moment there was nothing but the squeal of the heart monitor alarms behind her. Jean gasped, attempted to restart Remy’s heart. 

Faint light fizzled in the wounds in Remy’s chest. Rogue felt the current begin to flow from him, through her and back again. She felt him draw a shuddering breath. Rogue hoped to use her powers, to somehow draw Sinister out. The wounds from Logan’s claws sealed themselves. Remy’s chest relit with bright light. Jean rushed forward as Remy’s hand reached towards his own face, wanting to claw the mask from his nose and mouth. He thrashed for a moment and Rogue knew then he was struggling against Sinister. Jean reactivated the device and Rogue abruptly fell back, the current broken. 

Sinister’s eyes glared at Jean as she held him immobile. Jean called out to Elisabeth to signal an all-clear. They’d need restraints. A cell to put their prisoner in.

Rogue was transfixed, staring at the horrible monster wearing the face and form of the man she loved. 

_ I’m sorry for not bein’ completely honest with you. _ Remy’s thoughts told her.  _ Might’ve made a few omissions. But. I love you, too. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Gambit and Sinister sitting in a cell. I-N-D-W-E-L-L.
> 
> Plus more Remy/Logan heart-to-heart. Everyone knows the bromance is the best part right? I mean, Cobra Kai knows where it’s at. I ship Johniel.


	37. Chapter 37

Wolverine and Magneto found themselves regarded by one bright red eye, one dark. It was difficult to discern who was in control at any given time, that is, until the figure seated before them spoke.

"Is Rogue awright?" Gambit asked.

Sinister answered him: "I imagine she has healed by now. Such a shame, to think our time together was...wasted."

A flicker of fury passed over Gambit's face.

"You force my hand, LeBeau. Shall I inform your comrades of what I have done? With _your_ hands. I had only touched her...in the same places you yourself-."

"Ah," Sinister said, apparently satisfied. "He has taken his leave."

"A momentary victory, parasite," Magnus told him. "You will soon find yourself ejected. Without a host."

"You had best hope not," Sinister replied. "I have any number of failsafes in place, should you attempt to destroy me. I will only resurface elsewhere. At the moment, consider yourselves fortunate. You have my person, and my attention."

"And I have Gambit's permission, to do what it takes to remove you," Wolverine threatened, and claws slid slowly from his knuckles one by one.

Sinister's eyes narrowed. "You degenerate animal. Think to harm me, and I will just as easily shred bits from the boy's psyche."

"I wonder why you have failed to do so," Magneto asked. "Why would you allow him to continue to recite folk songs, dirty limericks, and television commercials, if you had the ability to control him."

"I would leverage him for my freedom. Let us negotiate. For every hour I spend here, I will sacrifice some part of the boy's mind. I sadly will not remove his ability to speak, because I would like him to convey to you the amount of pain he suffers."

Wolverine drove a fist into Sinister's face. Fortunately, it was not the fist with the unleashed claws.

"Never thought I'd thank someone for punching me in de face," Gambit said, his tongue going to his split lip with a wince.

"Is he capable of doing what he's claimed?" Magneto asked.

"I suppose. But he'd have to catch me first," Gambit replied. "Got de jump on me b'fore. Then I broke out of my own vault, fought off my own dragon, and have been runnin' amok since. Genie's out de bottle now."

"Understood about half of that," Wolverine said. "So, an improvement."

Gambit almost smiled, but then it caused his lip to bleed more.

"To answer your previous question," Magneto told him. "Rogue is with the others in the War Room. Discussing how we shall proceed with ridding you of your unwanted guest."

Gambit nodded, his expression one of misery. "I can't imagine how dis could've turned out worse," he said. "Thought my chances were bad when he offered me de deal. Work for him, he'd fix my powers. Instead he tries t'kill my friends, threatens my family. Thought I'd rather have my freedom. Now I don't even have half a brain."

"I could point out you were just using a quarter of it to begin with," Wolverine said.

Gambit gave a soft laugh. "I hope I'm able to stick around long enough so you can keep remindin' me what a dumb-dumb I am."

Gambit was seated on the sleeping platform, much as he had been when he'd first come to the X-Mansion. This time however, he was manacled hand and foot, arms chained to the wall. Feet to the floor.

"You should rest and conserve your strength. You will need it tomorrow," Magneto told Gambit.

Gambit paused, regarded the man nervously. "What's gonna happen tomorrow?" His expression abruptly changed, and he smiled. "Oh, yeah. _Hanukkah sameach!_ "

"I appreciate your sentiment," Magnus said. "And our plans will remain a close secret. Logan?"

"D'you mind sittin' a bit?" Remy asked Logan. "Keeps de monster under de bed, knowing you're here."

Logan nodded, sat on the edge of the cot beside Remy.

"I will rejoin the others," Magnus said. "Finalize our plans." The man departed through the transparent barrier blocking the doorway.

"Think he's comin' 'round to me?" Remy asked, raised an eyebrow.

"Must be the holiday spirit," Logan said, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed.

Remy likewise leaned back, though it was awkward since his arms were chained behind him. "I don't see how Rogue'll ever forgive me."

"She's a tough kid," Logan said. "Used to fighting demons."

"Seems like an eighteen-year-old should be just starting to figure out her future, not be beaten up by her past."

"You ever notice...she seems like someone older?"

"Yeah. Thought she said. She absorbed your mind, and you're like, what, from de Neolithic period?"

Logan shook his head slightly. "You'd better watch it, bub. I mean, she's not always herself."

Remy said: "Sometimes she talks in a way. I guess you'd call it, 'with gravitas.'"

"Sometimes she's someone else. Literally."

Remy watched the side of Logan's face. "Who?"

"Carol. Carol Danvers. An Avenger."

Remy's expression was startled for a moment before shuttering completely. He stared at the far wall, locked in some inner conflict. Logan thought Sinister's return was imminent. But then Remy said, his voice hollow: "I used t'collect their cards when I was a kid. De ladies' cards were harder t'come by. Had a million Iron Mans. Couldn't trade 'em for anything. Used dem for target practice."

Logan laughed through exhaustion, half-relieved, rubbed a hand over his face and rested his elbows on his knees. "Ms. Marvel," Logan supplied.

Remy considered this for a long time, still wearing that hard, blank expression. "So, de strength, flight, and invulnerability. That's Miz Marvel's. Rogue was—She's the one who..."

Logan nodded.

"She never said."

"Well, kid, seems like for all your flap-jawin' there are several things you might have forgotten to mention. You're married?"

Remy sighed, came back to himself. "Depends on who you ask."

Logan cast a glance over his shoulder at Remy, where he remained slouched against the wall.

"In de eyes of de State of Louisiana, yes. In de eyes of our families. No. In de eyes of God? Yes...since de time we were too young to be doin' de kinda stuff we were doin'."

"How about _your_ eyes, kid?"

Remy hesitated. "Yup."

"And you still fool around with other women?"

"S'right."

Logan shook his head and looked away. "Sometimes you make it hard to like you."

"Only sometimes?"

"Alright, it's not like I haven't made some serious errors in judgement," Logan told him. "But you picked the _wrong_ girl, Cajun."

Remy was silent.

"You're just a kid," Logan continued. "How are you _married_?"

"It was arranged."

Logan looked at him with incredulity. "This isn't some kind of shotgun situation? Don't tell me you knocked her up?"

Remy shook his head. "Nah. No. But kids were expected t'follow...immediately."

"Do we have to play twenty questions?" Logan complained. "I'd like the whole story before the New Year."

"Grouchy," Remy sulked. "Fine. Fine. Here goes. Had an arranged marriage, since I was seventeen. Me and my best friend, Belle. Her family and my family, they do not get along."

"Then why would-."

"You wanna hear dis story or not?" When he was certain Logan wasn't going to interrupt, he said: "It makes de Hatfield and McCoys look like a tea party. Long time, they've been squabbling. Looked like her family was nearly done chopping mine up to bits, when my father proposed a truce. Me and de daughter of their-leader-would get married, we'd end de fighting. Belle and I agreed, mostly. I might have harbored some...resentment, y'might say. But, I still loved Belle, she put up wit' me, and we were hitched. For a few hours or so. Made it through the ceremony anyway. Then her brother challenged me to a duel. Kinda ruined our honeymoon."

"You're kidding. Why?"

Remy fared him with a pointed look. "Because I married de woman he loved."

"But you just said-her brother...oh."

"Yeah, let de implications of dat sink in," Remy said. "My in-laws are somethin' else."

"I am guessing you won the duel."

"By all accounts I should have lost. The weapon of choice was swords. _Not_ my kinda thing. I did not intend t'kill him, but it happened. Might be my powers were starting to get a little out of whack. My family said it was self-defense. Her family said: he a cheater, off with his head. They outnumbered us, 'bout three to one. Finally, they decided on a good old fashioned shunning. Which everyone agreed was worse than death, which is de _only_ reason Belle's family gave de okay."

"So they kicked you out? Out of the family?"

"Out of de city," Remy answered. "But wait, dere's more."

"Oh, for…"

"Bot' de families answer to dis one-woman. She's like...a patron. So she shows up, says she's owed for me killing her top...bodyguard."

"Why do I get the feeling you're speaking in code."

"I don't want to overwhelm you with crazy details."

"Thanks for that!"

Remy continued: "She says she'll trade what she's owed for de top...uhm. Earner? From my family."

"You."

"No, my brother Henri. I said no. He'd already nearly died b'cause of me. So I volunteered. I picked leaving my wife...to go wit' that other woman. Belle, my wife, was not too happy. Just t'be clear, that's an understatement."

"Yeah, picked up on that. You got anything else regarding this sorry tale?"

"'Bout my wife? No. Dat's about it."

"Sounds like a bum deal, kid," Logan conceded. "But you were going back to your family for Christmas. I take it the shunning was over? What changed?"

"My service t'de patron had ended, several months ago. Was supposed to go back after, debt forgiven. Wasn't sure I wanted to, given what they want—," he stopped and shook his head. Changed his mind about what he was going to say. "But I may or may not have threatened to kill my father. Was kinda nuts at de time. Feel real bad about it. On top of dat, you know. I exploded."

"Am I going to want to visit you in New Orleans? Meet this family of yours?"

" _He's just a poor boy from a poor family,_ " Remy sang. " _Spare him his life from this monstrosity!_ "

Logan shook his head. "I don't understand how your mind works."

"Me neither."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: An unexpected visitation.
> 
> Random Reference:  
> Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen


	38. Chapter 38

The cell door was open when she approached, the transparent barrier active so that the captive was easily visible. She stood on the opposite side of the barrier, peering into the cell. The captive appeared to be asleep, laying on his side on the sleeping platform. The lighting was very low within the cell, but the hall light illuminated the interior.

“Wake up,” she said to the sleeping form. She was disappointed to see red and black eyes open, regard her silently. 

Slowly, awkwardly, Remy sat up with the sound of clinking chains binding him. He’d made no attempt at escape. 

“Rogue,” he said. “Chère, y’aint supposed t’be here.”

“She isn’t,” Carol said. “I’m giving her...some time to herself.”

Remy’s expression was at first confused, then alarmed. “Ms. Marvel!” he shouted. “Wait! I—.”

“Be quiet,” Carol said, walking into the cell. She was in full possession of her powers, as they were not mutant in nature. A fact Rogue had failed to recognize. “I want to speak to Sinister. Bring him out.”

Remy shook his head. “Hey!” he cried. “Hey! Logan! Magn---!”

Carol struck him across the face with an open palm and he toppled. Blood streamed from his lip. “I know all about you, Gambit. I know the brand of hot sauce you prefer. I know your ATM pin. I know how you  _ taste _ . And I have a sense of what scares you.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re an Avenger! What in de hell do you want Sinister for?” he attempted to stall. She struck him again with the back of her hand, causing him to fall in the opposite direction. 

“I don’t get tired, I could hit you all night,” Carol told him. “I want to talk to Sinister.”

Remy had half fallen from the cot, his feet struggled to propel himself back into a seated position. Carol seized him by the front of his uniform bottoms, yanked the belt free. “Sinister!” Carol hissed, raising the belt over her head. She could see Remy was struggling, both with his bonds and with the parasite in his mind. She struck him across the shoulder. The belt made a sharp crack and suddenly Remy had retreated. 

Carol clutched the belt in her fist, panting slightly. “I won’t strike you again,” she said. “You can come out.”

Sinister assumed a calm demeanor. He righted himself and sat stoically with a straight spine on the cot. “My dear, color me intrigued. What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

“I want to know more about these failsafes you have for yourself,” Carol demanded. “You have another body prepared somewhere?”

“Several,” Sinister smiled. “Yes. Should this form be grievously injured beyond repair, killed or otherwise destroyed, I would transfer my psyche to a new host.”

“Do you retain your powers?” Carol asked.

“In most instances, yes. As well as acquiring the abilities of my next host. I have quite the collection by now.”

Carol considered him. “Can you transfer my psyche? To another body? One I alone control?”

Sinister’s expression was as close to a look of delight as he could approximate. “Why, it would be my pleasure. How do you feel about becoming a redhead?” He nearly chuckled.

“I’ll free you,” Carol said in confirmation. “I’ll take you out of here. You give me a new body.”

“We are in agreement,” Sinister said. 

“Finally,” Carol said. “Having a choice. So much better than having no choice at all.” She reached out a hand to grasp him by the inhibitor. “You will not harm the other X-Men,” she ordered. “I’ll break you of these chains, but the inhibitor stays on until I know you won’t double-cross me.”

Sinister slowly declined his head in a bow. “Your terms are acceptable.”

Carol crouched to grasp the shackles around Sinister’s ankles. The chains clattered against one another. She found herself held immobile. Carol sucked in a breath. “No!” she gasped, struggling to hold Rogue back now. She grit her teeth together, forced her hands to pull the chains apart. They strained.

“Ah...won’t...let…” Rogue stammered. 

“Let me!  _ Let  _ me? I won’t wait for your  _ permission _ ...to live my life!” Carol shouted.

“You’re...not... _ alive! _ ” Rogue screamed. She threw herself backwards and away from Sinister.

Sinister realized his opportunity was slipping away. “Rogue. So nice of you to join us. You have proven yourself to be quite useful. Why attempt to torture my host, when he will readily commit to tormenting himself? The amount of horror and shame he feels, not just from what I have done with his body, but when he realized you—.”

Rogue regained her feet. “Shut. Up!” she demanded. “ _ Shut up! _ ”

“Though, I admit, the amount of displeasure I took in re-enacting your rather vulgar activities may last with  _ me  _ for some time,” Sinister continued, his expression conveying mild disgust. 

Rogue’s fist met with Sinister’s already much-battered face. He collapsed and blood poured from his nose. Rogue hadn’t realized she could hit so hard within the inhibitor field. “Oh, mah god. Remy!” She fell to her knees beside him, a hand on the side of his face. “Remy!”

Remy made a small moaning sound. His eyes rolled back into his head as he lapsed into unconsciousness. 

Rogue cried, her forehead resting on his chest. “Remy,” she whispered. “Please come back. Come back to yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sinister showdown.
> 
> PS, five more chapters left. Still time to vote on romance, sexy, or action preview. So far, the votes have Romance in the lead, and I do have a snippet in mind to whet your appetite. On la la.


	39. Chapter 39

They were gathered in the Danger Room. Disappointingly, it was Sinister who greeted the X-Men the following morning. He looked much the worse for wear, his jaw bruised, lip split, nose broken and eyes blackened. His expression was most displeased, and in spite of the pain he no doubt felt, was not rescinding his control to Gambit. When questioned about his injuries, Sinister was not forthcoming with answers. Sinister sat on the floor in stony silence. It was eerie.

Jean Grey and Elisabeth Braddock sat a distance away on either side of Sinister. Hank McCoy was poised nearby with his bag of medical supplies, having attempted to repair the damage done to Sinister’s (rather, Hank preferred to think of it as Remy’s) face. Ororo, Magnus, and Logan observed from the booth above. The pair, one telepath and one telekinetic, served as the only solution in chasing Sinister from Remy’s mind.

Betsy looked to Jean, who nodded to indicate she was prepared. Betsy was careful to conceal their plan. While Sinister was currently unable to access his own telepathy, once Betsy entered his (or Remy’s) mind, she had to carefully protect their scheme. Expecting resistance, Elisabeth was surprised to find herself gaining immediate access. She saw herself again in Gambit’s mindscape. It was an approximation of the city of New Orleans, interrupted here and there with scenes of the fantastical. Betsy recognized the Emerald City of Oz from a distance, however, it looked under great disrepair. Now a gray-green instead of the sparkling towers she remembered from her previous visit. The entire environment was not the bright and noisy place she recalled. A steady rain was falling from a dark sky, the buildings around her were shuttered, windows and doors boarded with plywood. A harsh wind jerked the tree limbs forcefully as sheets of rain rippled down the city streets, already ankle deep with rainwater. 

Betsy could protect herself from the weather, clad as she was in psychic armor. In the physical world, she knew she appeared as something of a cupcake. She felt her exterior did not match up with her interior. Betsy had joined the X-Men in hopes of improving her physical prowess, to bring it more on par with her mental strength. She forced herself to hold to their ideals, but did not fully embrace their willingness to forgive, to temper violence with mercy. Here, Betsy would not be merciful. She would seek out Sinister, spear him in the skull with a psybolt and hopefully destroy his chances of assuming a new body elsewhere. Betsy wondered why he simply hadn’t abandoned Gambit’s body. What was his purpose, what did he want with Gambit?

Before she pursued Sinister, she would need to find Gambit. She strode down the city streets, psychic swords held at the ready. Here she was sleek, nimble, her feet made no sound, barely stirred the water as she passed. Betsy (she needed to come up with a code name at some point, was half considering the name Mojo and Spiral had assigned to her) kept to the shadows. She found herself at an alley that ran diagonally rather than following the city grid. Betsy dashed down it, recognizing the location of the bank she and Jean had found. Betsy had wanted to breach Gambit’s defenses, uncover what the vault contained. Jean had demurred, insisted on giving Gambit some semblance of privacy. Jean was proved foolish in her judgement. No doubt the parasite Sinister had hidden himself within. 

Betsy found the bank destroyed, its contents spilled out onto the cobblestone street. Gold, silver and bronze coins shone dully through the puddles. The rest of the street, which had once appeared a magical version of London, was mostly in ruin. There was a dragon on the roof of the bank, however. He struck Betsy as looking quite pathetic. It gave a half-hearted growl, but otherwise, sank its horny head onto its forepaws. 

Failing to find any trace of Gambit, Betsy turned back the way she came. She did not find herself in a portion of the city she recognized from television, movies, or travel brochures. It was a residential street, the pavement cracked, sidewalks glutted with debris from the storm. She passed several derelict homes, the street framed on either side by parked older-model vehicles. Betsy was passing below the sprawling branches of a live oak that stood in a sad, flooded park. The branches stretched across the street on which she walked. Betsy paused, sensing another presence. 

“Show yourself,” she whispered, her voice swallowed by the sound of rainfall, a rumble of thunder.

An acorn dropped onto her psychic shield. She looked up, swords ready. She saw Gambit perched in the branches above. She was not sure however, if Sinister would himself appear in Gambit’s form or as the cadaverous monster she and Shadowcat had fought just outside the cellblock months ago. Betsy did not trust this figure to be Gambit, not until she heard the man speak. Remy’s speaking patterns and mannerisms were unmistakable, not to be imitated. 

“Who are you?” she asked him.

He did not answer, but held a finger to his lips, demanding silence.

“Prove your identity,” Betsy said and pointed a sword at the man’s head. “Or I will remove the answers from you.” 

Gambit considered this for a moment. Then he sucked in his cheeks, crossed his eyes, and made fish-lips at her. Betsy lowered her weapons. Gambit dropped to the street beside her. He nodded his head towards the house across the street. She silently nodded and followed him. They hopped a rusting wrought-iron fence, passed alongside the length of a decaying Greek-revival style mansion. At the rear was what appeared to be an entrance to a root cellar, the two doors barred with a type of biometric lock. It looked almost archaic in design. Gambit passed his hand over it, and the lock was disarmed. He beckoned her forward, directing her to descend into the darkness below.

Betsy held tight to her weapons, indicated Gambit should precede her. He shrugged, stepped down into the cellar, closed one of the doors behind him. Betsy watched as he disappeared from view. Slowly she followed, pulled the second door closed. They were now in darkness, the rain pattered on the door above. Gambit charged a playing card, and she could make out his features fully. Like herself, he had conjured a psychic avatar. While the features were similar, he appeared far more wraithlike, almost inhuman, in his mind than he did in reality. She wondered if it was truly how he saw himself, or an effect of having Sinister in possession of half of his mind.

Gambit started down the steps, his glowing card casting the stone around them in flickering light and shadows. Betsy followed him closely, her weapon on level with the back of the thief's skull. They reached a tunnel. It was remarkably dry.

“Where are we?” Betsy asked, and she winced slightly at the unexpected loudness of her voice in this hushed place. 

“Underground tunnels,” Gambit informed her, his own voice echoing.

“I thought New Orleans was below sea level,” Betsy said. “There aren’t any underground tunnels.”

“Yes, exactly,” Gambit said. “He won’t look for us here. He lacks an imagination. Doesn’t like my Neighborhood of Make-Believe. You should see what he did to Ankh-Morpork, went and wrecked it in a hissy fit. Guess he doesn’t care for Pratchett. No sense of humor, either.”

They stalked a ways down the tunnel. Gambit tossed his card into a brazier, setting it alight. Flames illuminated the space. He propped himself against the stone wall of the slightly curved tunnel, lit a cigarette. “Are dese things just as bad for your mind as they are for your body?” he asked.

“Likely,” Betsy told him, her weapons for the moment, vanished. “The things that happen to you on this plane can affect your physical form as well.”

Gambit exhaled a plume of smoke. “Tant pis,” he said. 

“I could offer you a telepathic suggestion,” Betsy told him. “To encourage you to break your habit.”

“But then I won’t look as cool,” Gambit said, and when he laughed a curl of smoke slipped from his lips. 

“You seem in decent enough spirits, all things considered.”

He watched her with a faint smile as he pulled another drag from his cigarette. “Looks can be deceivin’.” 

“The storm above,” Betsy nodded to the ceiling. “I would advise you to seek out some professional help. I am not a psychiatrist, but I think you require treatment.”

“Storm’ll pass in a few days,” he said, shrugged.

“Another will follow,” Betsy told him. “You’re stuck in this weather pattern. It won’t resolve itself on its own.”

“So chain-smoking and not leaving bed for a few weeks isn’t effective treatment, you’re sayin’?”

Betsy said nothing, put her hands on her hips. 

“You’re skinnier here,” Gambit observed with a tinge of disappointment.

“So are you,” she countered. “What does Sinister want with you?” 

Gambit shook his head, conveying incomprehension. “So what’s de plan?” he asked.

“You and I will draw Sinister out, into battle.”

“Where’s Jeannie at?”

Betsy remained silent.

“Got it. Not privy to your plan, am I?”

“It’s for your own protection,” Betsy said. 

“What happens if we lose?”

“We won’t,” Betsy said. “But I think Wolverine will likely have a contingency plan for you in mind.”

Gambit nodded, finished his cigarette and tossed it into the brazier. 

“You’ve been putting up a fair fight,” Betsy reassured him. “Without any psychic training. I imagine Sinister is having a hard time making sense of how you function.”

_ What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?! _

“Quite,” Betsy said. “Give me your hand.”

Gambit looked at her warily. She extended her own hand towards him. “I have no intention of hurting you,” she continued. When he offered her his hand, she turned it over, palm-side up. With her finger, she drew a mark on his palm, which remained traced in the bright pink of her own power signature. 

“Aw, a little heart. I’m afraid  _ my  _ heart belongs to another,” Gambit told her. “But I ‘preciate de thought.”

“Focus on this,” Betsy ordered. “It is a method...for remaining lucid. It typically takes weeks, if not months, to perfect. But we don’t have time. You need to remember that  _ you _ are in control of this place.  _ Not _ Sinister. This is your domain. It is subject to any fancy that crosses your mind. If you feel as though you are losing control, look at this and remember. This reality is  _ yours _ .”

Gambit regarded the mark on his palm. “Okay.”

“Remember, what happens to your psychic avatar, may also happen to your physical body. You could be killed. I don’t know if what harm Sinister causes you here will also affect your body though, since he seems to want to keep your body alive. But your mind could be wiped out.”

“Might not take dat much elbow grease t’do it, chère.”

“Negative self-talk is not going to help you,” Betsy said sternly.

Gambit drew a steadying breath. “Awright then. I guess we best get to getting. You mind giving me a moment?”

Betsy nodded, proceeded back towards the steps to take her to the surface. Behind her, she sensed him offering a silent prayer to his God, several saints, and a Holy Mother. She began to father some impatience when finally he appeared just behind her. 

“Have you prepared yourself, then?”

“As prepared as I ever am,” he responded glibly.

“Not reassuring,” Betsy murmured and climbed the steps. Back outside, the storm was more violent than before. “Center yourself.”

“Think we’re comin’ up on de eye of it anyhow,” Gambit said, and he was battered by a gust of rainwater. 

“Do not allow yourself to be pummeled,” she said. She demonstrated to him a sort of psychic shield, protecting herself from the weather.

He shook his head, helplessly. “Good thing I got my coat.”

“Where do you think Sinister will be?”

Gambit scoffed. “Where all de tourists go,” he said critically. “It’s not far from here, ‘bout two miles.”

“Lead the way,” Betsy said.

She followed him from the property, across the park, down an alley and then a main street. The houses in the area were all grande dames, in various states of beauty or decay. As they walked the manors and gardens became more regal. Betsy imagined this was some part of the famous Garden District. They emerged along a main street and headed towards the French Quarter. 

“Looks like de street cars is down,” Gambit remarked, then said apologetically: “Be takin’ our lives in our hands, hailin’ one of dese cabbies. We’ll have to hoof it…..Doesn’t usually look like this, chère.” 

“I recall...it was a lot more colorful before,” Betsy said. “There was an  _ interesting  _ odor, as well. I can’t say I miss it.”

“No idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

“It was a mixture of garbage, fried dough, vomit, and burned sugar.”

“Smells like home, t’me.”

They increased their pace as they neared Jackson Square. The weatherbeaten streets were empty of people; apparently, they had been evacuated. The storm however, was lessening in severity. Betsy saw that Gambit was right, there was a break in the clouds. The irrepressible heat caused the streets to steam. 

“We need to attract Sinister’s attention,” Betsy said. “Thoughts?”

“Same as how I did last time,” Gambit replied. He took her arm and abruptly pulled her into an alleyway. They passed down the rubbish-strewn alley, eventually coming to a sealed door with a grate over the window slot. Gambit banged on the door. The window slid aside. A faceless person stood in the small rectangle of red light shining from within.

“You seen a creep named Essex? Looks like Lurch from de Addams Family? Except wit’ less facial expressions?”

The little window slid shut.

“Guess not,” Gambit told Betsy. “Let’s try de next one.”

They passed through several seedy clubs, a casino, more back doors in alleyways, and a cock fight, inquiring as to Essex’s whereabouts.

“This is not the most expedient method,” Betsy said.

“Patience, ma petite!”

They emerged from another alley to find themselves in the heart of the French Quarter. Each street here was lined with beautiful buildings with gracious balconies decorated with ornate ironwork railings. Greenery dripped wetly in the bright yellow light shining through diminishing raindrops. They emerged into an open space, a small square flanked by hotels, restaurants, and shops. 

“Here I am, baby. Signed, sealed, delivered! I’m yours!” Gambit shouted to the sky, extending his arms.

“Gambit, be on guard,” Betsy warned. She held her weapons, slowly turning to surveille the area. 

They were in a small park, fenced on all sides by wrought iron posts. As they passed a fountain, there came a soft creak, which then became a much louder squeal of rending metal.

“Guess he got de message,” Gambit said, then let out a shout of surprise as it seemed metalwork was emerging from the ground around him. 

Betsy swung her sword, and it connected with the metal bars with a sharp ringing sound. Her sword rebounded as the metal bars formed a sort of cage around Gambit. His expression, as she saw him though the ironwork, showed panic.

_ You’re in charge here, Gambit!  _ she told him. She spun then, throwing up a defensive shield against the telepathic assault Sinister threw at her.

He was on the opposite side of the park, looking much as he did when Betsy had first encountered him. She parried his attack with one of her own. He tossed it aside with a flick of his wrist, began to move towards her. Betsy ran to meet him, psychic blades raised in either fist. She leapt only to hit a barrier of Sinister’s own making. She arced over his head, sliding off his shield, and landed on her feet in a crouch behind him. Now Sinister was between herself and Gambit. 

_ You’re a thief locked in a cage! Let yourself out!  _ she shouted.

_ There’s no lock!  _ he responded.

_ Make one! _

Gambit looked down at his palm. Betsy was unable to see if his focal point would work as she swung first one, then the second sword, in Sinister’s direction. He seemed not to rely on weaponry, simply stood, slid to the side, avoided her attacks while lashing out in silence, expression vacant. Sinister was increasing Betsy’s distance from his captive. He raised a fist skyward and she found herself falling backwards as the ground erupted beneath her feet. She flipped, nearly missing being impaled on sharpened fence points. Now on her feet on the opposite side of the low fence, she saw with some satisfaction that Gambit had freed himself. He was nowhere to be seen, however. 

Sinister was casting about, searching for him as well. He was irritated now. Sinister strode towards the empty cage, suddenly finding his foot sinking into marshy turf. He staggered, pulled his foot free. Betsy was over the fence and flying towards Sinister. Her foot connected with his lower back and he arched backwards. She swung her sword to his skull. His hand snapped around her wrist, too quickly to track by sight. He tossed her into the now-empty cage where she landed upside down with a clang. She fell to the marshy turf. Sinister moved forward but again was brought up short as both legs now sunk into swampy grass. 

The cage tilted forwards towards Sinister. Betsy ducked and slunk backwards as the cage tipped. She was now free, backing hastily away as the swamp began to spread. From the street behind her came a low growling sound. Something was struggling through the grate from the stormwater runoff drain. At first Betsy thought it to be another dragon, but it was in fact, an alligator. It moved with surprising speed towards the swamp, mouth open and hissing. 

Betsy grinned. She didn’t see Gambit, but he was fighting back at last. She heard a sharp whistle and turned. Gambit was gesturing from an alleyway. She intended to ignore him and instead attack Sinister again. Sinister was beset by a trio of alligators now, one of them had claimed his leg and was trying to drag him into the ever increasing swamp, twisting its powerful body in a barrel roll that would have torn a normal person limb from limb. When Sinister disappeared beneath the swamp water, she huffed in frustration. She turned and ran towards Gambit.

“I might have had him,” she scowled. 

“I kinda wanted to beat up on him a bit more,” Gambit grinned. “Payback time, enh, chère?”

Betsy allowed herself to smile in response. “He’s going to get it.”

“Follow me, dis is gonna be a riot,” Gambit said and dashed up the alley. They emerged into the chaos of Bourbon Street, now fully occupied with tourists. Betsy noticed the scent had returned, more powerful than before. There was a cacophony of sound, some of which might’ve been described as music.

Sinister appeared at the far end of the street. He moved through the crowd which mindlessly parted before him. 

“Gambit?” Betsy prompted.

“Wait, he’s nearly there,” Gambit said, watching eagerly.

Sinister passed before the open door to a busy bar. A dozen underdressed women came stumbling out from the bar and onto the street, all holding oversized glasses of a reddish-orange beverage. One of them howled and the others answered like a group of drunken wolves. The first howler was wearing an approximation of a bridal veil which had several plastic penises attached to it. A hen party, Betsy guessed. Sinister found himself embroiled in their midst, looking for a moment as if he might be ill. A woman sloshed her drink down his front. Sinister found himself struck multiple times by a large inflated phallus. 

Gambit was laughing quite hard at this, folded over in his mirth.

“Gambit!” Betsy said. “Focus!”

“Okay...okay,” he said, trying to catch his breath, wiping tears from his eyes with the palm of his hand. “C’mon up here!”

Gambit leapt up a wall, parkouring himself up the facades of a pair of buildings to an upper landing. Betsy followed, perched on a balcony rail beside Gambit. Sinister had emerged from the bachelorette party, his eyes searching the crowd for Gambit and Betsy. He moved to appear before them on the street in an eyeblink. Gambit was prepared. He tossed handfuls of green, gold and purple beads into the air. The crowd below responded with great enthusiasm. Sinister disappeared beneath the mass of flailing limbs. 

“Dis is de most fun I’ve ever had on dis street!” Gambit said. He called to the crowd: “Whoo! Hey, ladies! Show me your---!”

Betsy smacked another handful of beads from Gambit’s hands. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Aw!” Gambit said with disappointment. “Chère, it’s  _ tradition! _ ” He leapt up and onto the roof of the building. They were running along the rooftops now above the teeming crowds. He led the way to a quieter part of town, where silent residences slept, their eyes sealed with tall black shutters. The sky had been shining brightly, but now grew strangely dim. A mist swirled up from below. Gambit hopped down from a roof onto another balcony. Betsy joined him. The pair waited in silence. Betsy was quite excited, not knowing what Gambit would think of next. 

Sinister emerged though the mist below, looking like a vampire in the gloom. Betsy could see his psyche was much battered, diminished. Perhaps it was the first time he’d ever experienced humiliation. She readied her blade, turning it downward in her grip. She intended to drive it through the top of Sinister’s head as he passed. 

“LeBeau,” Sinister said in a hiss. “I will torment you no longer. Come out. I will make your death mercifully quick. I will spare your lover’s life. She is not worth my time. Nor is your pitiable family.” 

Gambit rose slightly. Betsy put a hand to his wrist, thinking to stop him. His eyes slid to hers and he winked. 

_ Regarde, petite, _ he said silently.

Sinister was now nearly below them. At the street corner, a gas street lamp flickered to life. The only illumination now, the rest of the scene in silver and blue darkness. Below the lamp, a lithe and sensual figure leaned casually; long hair, long coat, a glimmer of light on a bright white smile. Sinister turned toward the figure. 

“A wise choice,” Sinister said and moved toward the man silhouetted in the lamp light.

“‘ _ I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want...to go home _ ,’” the figure said in a French-accented voice.

Sinister shook his head slightly. “You continue to speak nonsense,” he said. “I will relieve you of the pain of your insanity.”

“‘ _ If I was a damned  _ thing _ , then let the son of a bitch come for me! Let him tell me why I was meant to suffer. I would truly like to know. As for oblivion, well, we can wait a little while for that _ ,’” the figure countered and Betsy saw his hair curled soft and blond above his shoulders. His face caught the light and was inhumanly pale, as were his bright gray eyes. The length of his sharpened incisor fell upon his full lower lip.

Sinister seemed to realize the strange, handsome creature before him was not Gambit at all, but so near was he to reach the man, the realization came too late.

“‘ _ I am the vampire Lestat  _ again _. Back in action. New Orleans is once again my hunting ground _ ,’” Lestat whispered and fell upon Sinister. 

“Should we let him have his snack, chère, or did you have somethin’ else in mind?” Gambit asked Betsy, gesturing to the grisly scene below. 

Betsy was disappointed to admit that perhaps Gambit would finish her job for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: It's like a cross between the movie Enchanted and the Slaughter Race song and dance number in Wreck It Ralph 2. It might be a fanfic first.
> 
> Remy's Random References:  
> Neighborhood of Make-Believe - Mr. Rogers  
> Ankh-Morpork - the city in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld  
> What is your major malfunction? - Full Metal Jacket  
> Signed, sealed, delivered - Stevie Wonder  
> The Vampire Lestat - Anne Rice


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You should definitely go to your music player, find Queen: Greatest Hits and play the song: Don't Stop Me Now while reading this.

Remy was lounging on the sun-warmed steps of the small park (no longer a swamp), stretched out, legs crossed at the ankles. His face, clad in sunglasses, was turned to the sunlight. He covertly watched Betsy through his lenses as she repaired the damage to the park; the damage Sinister inflicted on Remy’s mind. She was doing a good job of cleaning up Sinister’s mess, but Remy had some constructive criticism in mind.

“Are you just going to lounge around?” she asked, casting a glare at him over her shoulder. She wiped her forehead with her forearm. So, it took NOLA’s heat to make this woman break a sweat.

Remy grinned at her. “Think my brain needs t’go to de gym. I’m gettin’ tired just watching you work, Posh. But I’m afraid where my mind is concerned, neatness  _ doesn’t  _ count.”

Betsy put her hands on her hips again. She was wearing what might have been called a swimsuit, had they been on the beach. Remy had no complaints about her workwear other than the dark blue/purple was not his favorite color. He was pretty sure that based on the way Betsy was looking at him now, she had an idea about what he was thinking. Remy liked Betsy, she was fierce and direct. He just didn’t trust her all that much. Something in her violet eyes reminded him of certain assassins he’d met. BellaDonna had Elizabeth Taylor eyes too, and was given to a particular kind of look when she was in “stalker-mode.” But Belle’s cold gaze would easily melt away into mischief and good humor. She was equally fierce as Betsy, despite Belle’s tiny frame, which he’d describe as Kristen Chenowith meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Belle, though, he trusted  _ not  _ to stick a knife in his brain if he looked sideways at her. His thigh, yeah, maybe. But not his brain.

“Do you mean to leave all this rubbish strewn about?” Betsy finally said, pointing to the mixture of hurricane debris and actual garbage.

“It’s part of de charm,” Remy told her. “Don’t yuck my yum.”

“Eat garbage, do you?”

“Well, it’s been awhile, but...”

Betsy would have said more if Jean had not appeared on the stairs beside Remy. She abruptly sat down beside him, looking tired. Jean, he did trust. She was sexy as hell and had a wild streak, he could tell. But she didn’t parade about, advertising how amazing she was in all things. She had a way about her that drew people close, like a moth to a flame. If anything, she was a little too subtle about it for his taste. 

“Hey, Red. How’s tricks?” he casually asked though he was half-afraid of what she’d been up to all this time.

“My goodness,” Jean said, wiping her fingers across her squeezed-tight shut eyelids. “It’s hot here.”

Remy, in his coat, shrugged. 

“Were you successful?” Betsy asked.

Jean nodded, looked at Remy. “...So, there are a few things I need to tell you.”

_ The southern wind, Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the leaves. Foretells a tempest and a blust’ring day. _

“Okay,” Remy said out loud.

Jean regarded him solemnly for a moment, likely hearing his momentary lapse into iambic pentameter. She continued, too polite to call attention to his brain fart: “The first is that you’ve been moved to the infirmary.”

“And...whyfor?”

“Hank needed to assist me, with some final details.”

“You’d better not have stuck me wit’ anything,” Remy warned.

“Remy. I’ve severed some connections in your brain...left from right, to prevent you from accessing your full powers and abilities. I am... _ so sorry _ . Please, let me explain our reasoning.”

Remy said nothing, and for a moment his spinning thoughts paused with bated breath.

“If Sinister were to reclaim you, we couldn’t risk him assuming your powers. Betsy had put it in your mind that the sudden lack...was due to the, uhm...blow to the head you’d suffered last night,” Jean continued. “Do you happen to recall how that happened?”

Remy shook his head ‘no,’ lying.

Jean continued: “And without your powers, Sinister might voluntarily abandon you. That was our plan. Our hope.”

“So...am I just a reg’lar human now?” Remy asked slowly, fearfully.

Jean shook her head. “Hank wants to rerun some tests. You should be...as you were, perhaps when you were younger, in your nascent stage. Before your powers fully developed in your late teens, twenty, twenty-one. I’ll have Hank explain.”

“He’ll need t’draw me a picture.”

“He has a way with words,” Jean smiled softly. “It looks like you and Betsy were successful though. It’s possible...I could reconnect---.”

“ _ No! _ ” Remy shouted. Then in a more civil tone said: “Non, merci bien.”

“You’re not...angry?”

“‘Don’t forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he wanted,’” Remy quoted.

Jean asked, confused: “What happened?”

“‘He lived happily ever after,’” Remy replied.

Betsy strode over then, kicked the bottom of his boot. “On your feet, then, Wonka. Let’s finish clearing this mess.”

Remy grinned up at her. “I think I need workin’ out music.”

“I prefer to be alone with my thoughts while I work,” Betsy said. 

Remy popped to his feet. Ignoring her, he said: “I’m feelin’...like I’m on a bit of a Queen kick.”

“Do not---,” Betsy began, holding up a hand to forestall him. “Your range is a far cry from Freddie Mercury’s.”

“Like I ever let that… _ Stop me...Now.... _ ”

“Stop!”

“ _ Don’t. Stop me. Now! _ ” Remy slowly descended the remaining stairs as he sang, tossed his coat on a nearby fence post. 

Then faster: “ _ 'Cause I'm havin’ a good time, havin’ a good time! _ ” Remy imagined into being a man in an old fashioned three-piece suit on a nearby bench, who for whatever reason, was playing the spoons on his knee. 

“ _ I'm a shooting star, leaping through the sky. Like a tiger...defying the laws of gra-vit-eee! _ ” Remy seized Betsy by the wrists in either hand and pulled her into the street. Before she could kick him away, he released her and hopped into oncoming traffic. 

“ _ I'm a racing car, passing by---like Lady Godiva! _ ” he sang, jumped up just as he was about to be struck by an oncoming cab and landed on the hood of the vehicle. “ _ I'm gonna go, go, go...There's no stopping meeee!” _

The female cab driver, her hair a deranged mess of gray screamed out the window at him: “Like I’d know anything about that! I mind my own bid’ness!”

Remy flipped over the taxi cab light, landed on the trunk of the car, and bounced off. “ _ I'm burnin' through the skyyy...yeah! Two hundred degrees! _ ” Leapt onto a passing streetcar and waved at Jean and Betsy as he jerkily rode down the street. “ _ That's why they call me Mister Fahrenhe-height…! I'm travelin’ at the speed of li-ight! _ ”

Betsy and Jean barely broke a walk as they followed the trundling street car. He pointed at them: “ _ I wanna make a supersonic woman of you! _ ”

As he neared the turning at the Spanish Plaza, he hopped off the trolley. “ _ Don't---stop---me now! I'm having such a good time! I'm having a ball! _ ” A mass of revelers emerged from a casino, dressed in masks and beads, carrying cups of coins. They were met with a tourist group from a cruise ship. There were many open containers involved. Someone vomited. 

Jean and Betsy caught up with him, and they hopped on a streetcar heading in the opposite direction. “ _ Don't! Stop! Me now! If you wanna have a good time, _ just give me a call!” He made his thumb and pinky into a phone and pointed at a newlywed bride staring at them from the park gates, her bridegroom forgotten. She tossed her bouquet and Jean caught it. 

“ _ Don't stop me now! 'Cause I'm having a good time! Don't stop me now, yes, I'm havin' a good time! I don't want to stop at aaaall! _ ” Remy was hanging by the handrail far into the street. On the corner nearby, a fortune teller got into a heated argument with her lover in a black catsuit. The two women pulled one another’s hair.

The trio was forced to disembark from the streetcar when an NOPD squad car pulled up from a side-street, siren giving two short squawks. Remy blew the officers a kiss as they stepped from the vehicle, then he turned and hopped off the opposite side of the trolley. 

“Pursuing on foot,” one of the officers said into his radio. Remy, Jean and Betsy were brought up short when a mounted officer suddenly appeared, and together they ran from the main drag into the French Quarter. They were forced to dodge through several costumed street performers and a pair of dueling mimes. 

“ _ Yeah, I'm a rocket ship on my way to Mars! On a collision course! I am a satellite...I'm out of control! _ ”

Finding themselves now in front of a cemetery, they were joined by a group of mourners departing through the gates. At first, the crowd appeared quite sad, but then a brass band began to play, umbrellas were raised, and everyone started dancing. 

“ _ I am a sex machine! _ ” Remy announced. “ _ Ready to reload! Like an atom bomb about to...oh, oh, oh, oh, oh explooode! _ ”

Several zombies emerged from the crypts to perform a move or two from  _ Thriller _ .

“ _ I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah! Two hundred degrees. That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit! I'm travelin’ at the speed of li-ight. I wanna make a supersonic woman of you! _ ” Here he seized Jean and dipped her low to the ground, attempted to kiss her, and was met with a sudden burst of flame. 

Remy exhaled smoke. “Oh, fiery!”

“ _ Don't stop me, don't stop me! Havin’ a good time, good time. Don’t stop me, don’t stop me. Oo oo oo! _ ” the backup dancers sang as Lestat performed a guitar solo atop one of the crypts while Louis somberly held a huge black umbrella over both their heads to block the sun. 

“ _ Ooh, I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah! Two hundred degrees! That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit. I'm travelin’ at the speed of li-ight. I wanna make a supersonic man out of you! _ ”

A mule bearing an open cab appeared, and the three climbed on board. Remy seized the mule’s top hat and donned it. “C’mon, Posh! Humor me!  _ Don't---stop---me now! I'm having such a good time! I'm having a ball! _ ”

Betsy took over the reins from the driver and the mule started off at a brisk pace. The riders were nearly ejected as the cab traveled over the broken cobblestones in the street. The driver cut his losses and leapt from his seat.

_ “Don't stop me now! _ ” Singing as they rode back into the Garden District. Stray beads of Mardi Gras parties long past hung limply from tree limbs and streetlamps. “ _ If you wanna have a good time! _ ”

Betsy said: “Whoo!”

“ _ Just give me a call! _ ”

Jean said: “Alright!” and rolled her eyes.

Fully committed now, they all sang: “ _ Don't stop me now! 'Cause we’re havin’ a good time! Don't stop me now! Yes, we’re havin' a good time! _ ”

Betsy stopped the cab before the park where she had originally encountered Remy in the tree. The park was no longer flooded, but full of people seated on benches, playing fetch with dogs, picnicking on blankets in the sunshine. Remy seemed to be winding down now: “ _ I don't want to stop at aaalll…. _ ”

Remy meandered over to the circular fountain at the park’s center, hopped up on the rim and wandered its circumference. “ _ La...dadadadada aaa lalada haha haaa! _ ”

“Do you have that out of your system?” Betsy asked. 

“I think things are back in order now,” Remy told her, he plopped himself down on the fountain’s retainer wall. 

Jean sat beside him, still holding her bouquet. “You have your club back up and running?” she asked.

“Weh,” Remy nodded, while watching the house across the street. 

“And the bank is closed,” Betsy affirmed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find a different way to manage your assets.”

“I suppose,” Remy said, noncommittally. The front door of the house opened. A woman stepped onto the front porch. She waved, probably summoning him for dinner.

Remy waved back. 

“And this is how you want to leave things?” Betsy asked, giving a general indication of their surroundings. 

Remy pushed his sunglasses back onto his forehead, his hat now askew. “Dis is how we leave things,” he confirmed. 

Betsy nodded. “I’ll see you back in reality,” she said.

“Y’all come on back now, y’hear?” Remy said, country twang style, then added: “Whenever you’re in de mood for a good time, anyway.”

Betsy shook her head. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

She disappeared. 

“Are you alright?” Jean asked quietly.

“Right as rain,” Remy smiled at her. 

She nodded. “If you ever need to talk, I might have some idea of what you’re going through. See you soon.”

Jean vanished as well. Now alone, Remy tilted his head back to look at the sky. A cloud crept by. People began to leave the park, heading for the safety of their homes. Raindrops pattered down, causing the water surface in the fountain to jump. The walkways darkened with drops. Remy closed his eyes. His face grew wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Bedside manners.  
> Random References:
> 
> The southern wind, Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, And by his hollow whistling in the leaves. Foretells a tempest and a blustering day. - Henry IV, Shakespeare, various portents of doom.
> 
> “Don’t forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he wanted.” - Willy Wonka, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl
> 
> “Like I’d know anything about that! I mind my own bid’ness!” - my insane taxi driver in New Orleans, who caused me to believe I was about to die. Word to the wise, the less said to them, the better. In fact, call an Uber instead.
> 
> Fortune teller got into a heated argument with her lover in a black catsuit. - actually witnessed in Jersey, not NOLA
> 
> Y’all come on back now, y’hear - Hee Haw
> 
> Thank you friends, for continuing to visit my story and click the <3
> 
> OK folks, looks like votes for sexy vs romance is neck-and-neck. Maybe I'll just go with 'sexy romance.' Also, you might've dodged a bullet not voting for an action preview, because it was really just Gambit and Wolverine bro-ing out, chopping things up, and blowing shit up.


	41. Chapter 41

“You ladies are looking rather... _ dewy _ ?” Hank said tentatively.

It was true, both Jean and Betsy were damp. Sweating, you might say, if you were less polite. 

“I need a shower,” Betsy said and stood from the chair at the hospital bedside. 

From the bed, Remy watched her go. “Can’t take de heat,” he commented.

Jean plucked a few tissues from a nearby box and blotted her upper lip. She was seated on Remy’s opposite side.

“Hot in there, was it?” Hank said to Jean with a sly smile and nodded at Remy.

“I’ve been hotter,” Jean said smartly and stood. She briefly touched Remy’s shoulder. “Try to get some rest.”

He smiled up at her. “None for de wicked.”

Jean briefly touched her lips to the side of his head before departing.

“Did ya see dat?” Remy asked Hank excitedly. “Wait’ll I tell Logan!”

Hank patted Remy’s opposite shoulder. “Maybe a momentary pause in attempts on your own life.” 

Hank sat in the chair Elisabeth had vacated. That was when Remy realized his left wrist was held to the bedrail in a soft restraint. He saw his forearm was covered under a bedsheet, but there was a suspicious tube emerging from beneath. His eyes followed the tube upwards, where it seemed the thing was attached to a bag of transparent liquid. 

“Now, don’t panic,” Hank began as that was precisely what Remy began to do. 

“What’d you stick me wit’!? Get it out!”

“Intravenous fluids,” Hank said calmly. “You were dehydrated.”

“Fluids! Fluids? What  _ fluids _ ? Gin is a fluid! Antifreeze is a fluid!”

“I will remove it now, if you will just be still.”

“Chained me t’de bed! I got no choice!” Remy’s hands began to flare with pinkish light.

Hank hastily reached under the sheet and extracted the IV. “Done! Done, no harm!” he then pulled the Velcro restraint apart. Remy clasped his injured wrist in his opposite hand and glared at Hank. Still the picture of calm Hank added: “It looks as though you’ve retained your ability to transmute potential to explosive kinetic energy.”

“Transmute you inta big blue dust bunnies!” Remy grouched.

Hank sank back into the chair, causing it to creak. “This phobia of yours,” he began. “It’s more than just fear. You are in some way fundamentally opposed to medical treatment.”

Remy felt his guard come up. He watched the doctor warily. 

“You’d never had an exam until a few months ago,” Hank said. “Am I right in guessing you’ve never been vaccinated?”

Remy had no response for that either.

“You refused the painkillers when your hand was broken. You mentioned a faith healer of some kind? For Warren?”

“Well it didn’t look like  _ medicine  _ was helpin’ him out, now did it?” Remy replied hotly.

Hank crossed one arm across his chest, placed a clawed fist under his chin. “Roman Catholic, not Christian Science?”

“Catholic, weh. Though I have read de works of Mary Baker Eddy, and while I might quibble wit’ some of her---.”

Hank held up his hand. “My friend, I believe this is where we will find ourselves in disagreement. I will not even entertain a debate on the matter, because I don’t want to give credence to---.”

“Sure, you go ahead and keep your thinkin’ to yourself. Heaven help you if I call inta question  _ your  _ beliefs. Mebbe they wouldn’t stand up t’de test? What is faith, if it’s not been tested? Just blindness!”

Hank drew a steadying breath, and Remy could tell the doctor was trying to prevent himself from going toe-to-toe with him now. 

“I don’t operate on faith alone,” Hank said finally. He turned to the bedside table and retrieved a deck of playing cards. “Would you mind terribly performing a brief demonstration of your abilities? We’ll conduct a more thorough exam in the Danger Room when you’re feeling up to it.”

Remy snatched the deck from Hank’s hands, still feeling angry. Anger was a good distraction. Remy would rather argue religion than talk about what he’d seen in that Weapon X facility, about what happened there with the needles and tubes. Or what happened after, to his father, because Remy was so careless and afraid. He opened the box, scored the top of the deck with a thumbnail, and extracted the deck. Cut and shuffled it in one hand three times. Remy drew the top card and looked at it. King of Diamonds, reversed. B-A-D,  _ bad _ . Single-eyed king, who sees only one way, his own. A treacherous schemer. 

The playing card flared abruptly, and Remy tempered the charge. The card deteriorated. 

“I would prefer to conduct a scan, but instead I’ll just ask: how do you feel?” Hank asked. “From an---internal energy standpoint?”

Remy put a hand to his chest. He saw he was wearing a hospital gown, his legs covered in a sheet. “I feel it. Still. Not out of control, just like a low hum.”

“It does not seem that you’ve retained the ability to heal yourself, at least not as quickly as before. Your face, I’m afraid to say, is quite battered.”

Remy plucked the front of his hospital gown, looked down at his chest. “Been marked,” he said, looking at the diamond-shaped scar on his chest. Not a scar from being shot in the chest, as he’d thought. Something else. 

Hank was still talking: “Jean severed some connections, but your powers remain. They are just not accessible to you. It’s possible your brain may heal or find other ways to compensate for the loss...”

Remy felt a tremor start somewhere in his stomach. His mind was in total revolt. Without the vault, there seemed to be nowhere for him to put the feelings or flashes of memory he was experiencing. They were instead manifesting themselves in his now shaking hands. 

“Remy?” Hank said quietly. Hank put a hand on his shoulder and Remy jerked himself away, moved to avoid Hank’s touch. 

“Stop it. Don’t touch me,” Remy said, voice rough. “Just stop  _ talking _ .” 

Hank sat forward, rested his chin on his fist and watched Remy carefully, silent for several long moments. “Alright,” he said finally. “Would  _ you  _ like to test  _ me _ ? Perhaps you can tell me what Ms. Baker Eddy had to say. I’ll listen, keep an open mind.”

“My arguments escape me at de moment,” Remy said, his throat tight. “ _ But if you are feeling sinister. Go off and see a minister. He'll try in vain, to take away the pain, of being a hopeless unbeliever _ .”

“Some other time, then. When you’re feeling more yourself...It was a heinous violation, what was done to you. You did nothing to bring that on yourself. You are not to blame,” Hank said. “The best way to truly defeat Sinister is to recover. To have total victory, you must heal yourself. It may not feel this way now, but it  _ will  _ get better. There are several people here, who can relate and commiserate with your experience. You are not alone.”

“X-Folks get possessed a lot, do you?”

“Define: ‘ _ a lot _ ,’” Hank said. He reached across Remy to retrieve the box of tissues Jean had used. Placed it in Remy’s lap. 

“Like a damned soap opera, dis place,” he added, crumpling several tissues in his fist. “So who all’s got an evil twin?”

“I wouldn’t have described her as being ‘evil’, but rightfully troubled.”

Remy laughed weakly. 

“Ororo was kind enough to retrieve your clothes from the wreckage of your apartment,” Hank said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve got something more colorful to wear.”

“Is dat a doctor’s opinion?”

“The students are all here, New Mutants and our charges from X-Factor. I believe they are having a spirited competition in the arena of decorative baked goods. Christmas cookies. Would you care to help judge the finalists?”

“I might follow my doctor’s advice in dis one instance.”

“Rogue told me you are not to eat anything colored  _ red _ . Do you have an explanation for that?”

“You’re de expert. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I wonder if you don’t suffer from some form of adult attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.”

“Forget I asked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The past comes back to haunt Gambit.
> 
> Remy's Random Reference:  
> But if you are feeling sinister - Feeling Sinister, Belle & Sebastian
> 
> Aw, can you believe there are only two more chapters?


	42. Chapter 42

They were laying on their backs, side-by-side on the wooden platform, their new treefort. They’d covered it with a picnic blanket to keep from getting stuck with splinters or poked with errant nails. They were not meant for careers in construction, it seemed. She had hung mosquito netting from the branches above, which kept the bugs off at least. It was much cooler up here in the tree, shaded by the oak leaves, rather than in the house, which was stifling. Remy should have been back home hours ago, but the sun and heat had lulled him into a daze. He was half-asleep. Belle too, he thought, her bare sweat-sticky arm pressing against his own. 

_ I’m sticking with you. ‘Cause I’m made out of glue. Anything that you might do. I’m gonna do too. _

She turned towards him to lay on her side. “Remy?” she whispered. She put her hand on his stomach. “You ‘wake?”

“Mnh,” was his reply.

“Remy...? Anyone ever touch you...here?” she asked, her hand moved lower.

Remy gave a breathy half-laugh and grinned, his eyes still closed. He pushed her hand away. “Don’t be stew-pid,” he said. He knew what  _ that  _ was all about. Tante had explained to him where babies came from ages ago. The dirty jokes he’d learned made a lot more sense after that, but he kinda still didn’t  _ get it _ .

Belle didn’t say anything for a bit. Remy opened an eye and looked at her. Her eyelids were closed tight. The corners of her mouth were down, like someone was tugging them with strings. “Must just be me then,” she said, her voice real tight and small.

Remy rolled onto his side to face her. “S’okay, Belle,” he said. “You can touch me if you want. I don’t care.”

_ You held up a stage coach in the rain. And I'm doing the same. Saw you hanging from a tree. And I made believe it was me. _

Her violet eyes opened to look at him. They were wet. 

“Maybe we should just try kissing first?” Remy suggested.

Belle smiled. 

_ I'll do anything for you. Anything you want me too. I'll do anything for you. Oh I'm sticking with you. I’m sticking with you. _

Kissing again, seven years gone in the blink of an eye, in the nave of a church. The reception line passing them by. It was fine, most of the attendants would prefer to ignore either Remy or Belle or both anyway.

“I guess you clean up okay, ugly,” Belle told him, fingering the formal Guild attire he’d been forced into.

“You’re lookin’ slightly less stew-pid today, Belle,” Remy replied. She was wearing her mother’s gown; pretty modest, for Belle. White flowers in her hair, momentarily tamed. His fingers traveled down the 80-some buttons running down her spine from nape to tailbone. That was going to be a challenge for later.

“Only slightly less? How’s dat possible when I’m standin’ next to you?” Belle said and Remy laughed. Kissed her again.

“Won’t even let God come between ‘em!” Remy’s cousin announced. Remy and Belle were crushed into a group hug unexpectedly. “Save it for de honeymoon, you two!”

“Get your paws offa me, Rabbit!” Belle said and shoved Emil back. 

Emil stood next to his own wife, Marie-Thérèse. “Hey, M.T.,” Remy said to the woman, though some might consider her a girl still. She was very pregnant. “You’re lookin’ more  _ full  _ today. How many babies you got in dere anyway?”

Marie-Thérèse offered him a rude hand gesture. She made a lot of those.

Belle stage whispered: “I think she’s tellin’ you dere’s just de one.”

“You’ll be next!” Emil said, and poked a finger into Belle’s shoulder.

“Poke me again, and you’re gonna have to find another finger to scratch your ass wit’!” Belle hissed.

Remy’s laugh echoed. The priest was not looking at them kindly. Father-of-the-bride was none too pleased either.

“Maybe we should meet ya outside before we’re all smited. Smitten? Smote?” Emil said. Remy propelled him toward the double doors to the church exit. “What’re we throwin’ anyway? Rice? Or grenades?” The priest and Belle’s father Marius followed after the departing couple. It was raining a little outside. Supposedly, that was good luck.

“Thank God dat’s over,” Belle sighed. “I’m starvin’! And I only intend t’eat cake and drink champagne all night!”

Unfortunately, there was one last person in line. He hadn’t been invited. Of course, he’d want to get the last word in, like a shiv to the rib cage. Remy intended to walk away but Julien’s words brought him up short. 

“You had de nerve to wear white?” he asked his sister. “Mama’ll be rollin’ in her grave.”

Remy turned to look at the heinous man. He looked a lot like his sister, lots of wild blond hair, delicate features, too-generous mouth. Except Julien’s eyes were like flat painted rocks to Belle’s sapphires. “Go t’Hell,” Remy told him in the same manner one might say: ‘Nice weather we’re having!’

“I’d tell you to go  _ get fucked _ ,” Julien answered, “but I’m sure my slut of a sister has already taken care of dat.”

Remy thought to grab the man’s ceremonial sword from his scabbard and stab him with it. Belle grasped Remy’s right wrist before he could turn thought into action. It didn’t matter, Remy could use his left just as easily.

“He’s not worth your time,” Belle said. “I won’t let him ruin  _ our  _ day. Or night. Or de rest of our lives!”

Remy’s father Jean-Luc was a very patient man. He was long on thought, but not too quick on action. Years ago, when he brought the idea to Marius of marrying off their two youngest, he knew he’d be taking away what was rightfully Henri’s. Henri should have been next in line for Guild patriarch, not the youngest child, and certainly not the one who was unrelated by blood. At the same time, the marriage meant Julien would not ascend to his father’s station. Marius was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Julien was unfit for anything other than an early grave. 

Belle pulled Remy into another kiss, one that probably shouldn’t be happening in the nave of a Holy Church. Remy thought he saw a plaster angel blush. Belle’s eyes were closed, but Remy had one eye on Julien. Hating him so much he felt it in his chest, the fire of a thousand suns. 

Remy woke up feeling sick to his stomach. It had been a long time since he’d recalled those particular memories. Remy rubbed his hands on his face vigorously, sat up from the bed and started towards the bathroom. Sunlight was streaming through the two windows on either side of his dorm room bed. Outside on the School grounds, it was a world of sparkling white. Tiny crystal snowflakes were twirling down out of a blue sky. In the bathroom, he washed his mouth out with water from the tap, trying to chase away the sour taste his nightmare had left him with. The opposite door to the shared bath opened and Remy looked up from the sink to see Bobby.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t realize you were up!” the man said. Rogue might have called him the Cute Boy, but he was Remy’s senior by three or four years. Maybe Rogue thought most of the men here were boys, other than Logan and Magnus.

“S’alright,” Remy said. “I was just leavin’.” Remy spied the travel bag on Bobby’s mattress. Remy had one packed too, stuck underneath his own bed. “Goin’ home?” he asked.

Bobby glanced back into his bedroom, he had a kind of look on his face that didn’t convey Christmas cheer. “Yeah, tomorrow. I told them I was staying for the party tonight.”

_ Oh yeah, the party _ , Remy thought with some dread. Remy supposed he’d have to put on his Game Face for that. Grin and bear it. “You’re not wanting to go home? Don’t ya miss your mama’s cooking?”

Bobby put a smile on his face. “To be honest, Rogue’s a much better cook.”

“I won’t argue dat,” Remy said. “De lake is froze over and I imagine it’d hurt more to get thrown into it.”

Bobby laughed a little. “It’s not my mom’s dried out ham. It’s my dad. He’s kind of a jerk.”

Remy gave Bobby a sympathetic smile. “My cousin has de same problem.  _ Hared _ off and made his own family as soon as he could, just to get away from him.”

“I can relate to that. How about yours?” Bobby asked.

“My daddy? He’s a badass! If it makes you feel any better, my dad could totally beat up your dad.”

Bobby thought this over. “Is that a threat...or an  _ offer _ ?” he said with mock consideration, then grinned. Remy thought Bobby had a pretty good Game Face too.

There was a knock on Remy’s door. He turned and Rogue peeked in. It felt like awhile since he’d last seen her, but it had only been a little over a day. A day, at least, since he’d seen Carol. Bobby waved at her from the bathroom. 

“Later,” Bobby said to Remy.

“Yup,” Remy replied with a wave of his own as he closed the bathroom door. 

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Rogue told him as she closed the bedroom door.

“Same t’you,” Remy said, hoping he wasn’t looking as nervous as he felt. She sounded herself, now anyway. Not Carol. “Y’awright?”

Rogue nodded in a noncommittal way. “Ah’m...fair enough.”

“I don’t even know how you can stand t’look at me,” he said and walked to the window to half-lower the blinds. 

“Ah know it wasn’t you,” Rogue said softly. “It was obvious from the get-go. Ah should have---.”

“You can’t honestly blame yourself for what happened,” he cut her off.

“No, Ah don’t. There’s only one to blame.”

Remy agreed with the statement, but probably not the who. He was the one who’d brought the devil into the house in the first place.

“Ah can tell what you’re thinkin’,” Rogue said. “What all Sinister did ta me, he did ta you, too. He assaulted mah body, but he...he did somethin’ else to your mind. Ah can’t even bring mahself t’say it. Ah know what that’s like. Ah’ve done it to plenty of people mahself.”

Remy shook his head angrily. “That--- _ no _ . You didn’t do what he did. Get in someone’s head and…force them to do things. That’s not something you’d do.”

Rogue looked at her gloved hands, twisting her fingers together. “Ah’m sorry Ah didn’t tell you about Carol. Ah figured...well, everyone here knows already. Ah shouldn’t have assumed anyone would tell you. Just, news---gets around. That was mah excuse, anyway, to not have t’say.”

Remy shrugged, sat on the end of the bed. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s not like I gave you my whole history.”

“About your...w-wife?” Rogue said, struggling through the word.

“Among other things.”

Rogue took a half step towards him, faltered, but then decided to sit beside him. “We agreed we’d leave our pasts in the past, remember?”

“You want t’talk about gettin’ in people’s heads? Manipulating them, controlling them? I got some stories that’ll uncurl your hair,” Remy told her.

“Remy…”

“Used to do it  _ all de time _ . Not a one-night-stand kinda guy, me. I could spend weeks making a girl fall in love with me.”

“Please, don’t.”

“Wasn’t even about sex. Just wanted to convince her I was her Prince Charming. Then once she told me how much she loved me, I’d either rob her blind, start up wit’ someone else, or just drop her flat. Make sure she knew I’d betrayed her.”

Rogue put her face in her hands.

“Get to start hating the girl once she uttered those three words, because she was  _ just so stupid _ to fall for de likes of me.” Remy knew he was making Rogue cry; he didn’t want to look at her.

She was silent for a while. Remy heard her sniffle. He would never bring himself to hate her though, even if she’d said those words to him. Which she hadn’t.

“Why’d you tell me all that?” she asked, her throat tight with emotion.

“So you know who I really am.”

“You’re a  _ liar _ .”

“C’est vrai.”

“That’s not who you are at all.”

“You need more evidence?”

“Just stop it!” Rogue stood then and put herself in front of Remy so he had no choice but to look up at her.

Remy wasn’t going to stop until she knew: “I was sworn, beholden, to serve another woman for three years. She is truly de most awful person I’ve ever met. Abused, tortured my family. It was a big game t’her.  _ Entertainment _ . I stayed those three years---and one day. That last day, I chose to be wit’ her instead of goin’ back home to my wife, my family.”

“Just a day,” Rogue whispered. “You left after.”

“That day my father came to get me, I said the most hateful things t’him. Told him I despised him and if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him.”

“But you realized you’d made a mistake.”

“Too late. Can’t unsay what I said.”

“He’ll forgive you.”

“I don’t want forgiveness. I don’t deserve it.”

Rogue let out a long, shaking sigh. “Ah know exactly what you’re feelin’, sugah. But it doesn’t serve you any to keep beating yourself up about it. You got to get unstuck, move forward with your life.”

“The dumb things I did...I didn’t just mess up my own life, I messed up so many people’s lives. Including my longest, closest friend. Who I  _ married. _ Bet she’s wishin’ she’d never met me.”

“Do you love her?” Rogue asked. “Do you love her still?”

“Yes.”

“Would you go back t’her, if you could?”

“I’ve made myself the most undesirable husband in the world. At de very least, I’ve made it so she won’t miss me.”

“But if she’d forgive you? Would you go back?”

Remy looked at Rogue’s face, her complexion blotchy, eyes bright with unshed tears. He hated himself for making her look that way. “I’ll give you whatever answer you want to hear.”

“How about the truth, Remy?”

He extended his hand in her direction. “I’m assumin’ without my full powers, you can absorb me now. You can see the truth then.”

Rogue looked at his outstretched hand, his silent offer. She nodded to herself, as if in confirmation. She folded her arms against her body protectively. “Remy...Ah can be honest, too. Mah name---.”

Remy interrupted by standing and walking to her. “What’s a name tell me about who you are?” he asked. “Will it tell me more about you, more than the name you’ve been callin’ yourself? Is your real name the real you? Or are you Rogue: independent, uncontrollable, unexpected....more than I could ever bargain for?”

She was looking away, but now she looked up at him. “You might be right,” she conceded.

He smiled slightly. “There’s another first for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Christmas party crashers and the conclusion of this story.
> 
> Random Reference:  
> Sticking with You - Velvet Underground


	43. Chapter 43

"Remy. Étienne. LeBeau!"

_Oh, shit, wha'd I do now?_

Remy sat up, shocked into alertness. He realized he must have fallen back to sleep. His room was dark now, save for the pair of electric candles someone had put in both windows. Also there was the glowing apparition at the foot of his bed.

Tante Mattie stood there, hands on her hips (or at least some kind of astral projection of Tante Mattie). Dressed in an old calico dress, looking like something out of _Little House on the Prairie_ , with a handkerchief over her braided hair. Except little Laura Ingalls never looked half so fierce. Though semi-transparent, colorless save for a golden glow, the disapproval on Mattie's face was very opaque. Remy opened and closed his mouth several times.

"Just _what_ do you think you're doin'?" Tante Mattie demanded.

Remy looked down at himself, looked around his room. Looked back to Tante Mattie. "Sl-sleepin'...?" he suggested.

Rogue sat up then, blearily looking around. "Wha-? What's goin' on?"

Tante Mattie's eyes went to Rogue, then pointedly back to Remy, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.

"Oh, well-dis ain't. I'm not-we didn't-."

The eyebrows came down, nearly meeting in the middle over livid eyeballs. "I hear tell you're badly _hurt_. I sent myself _all dis way_ and here I find you...your philanderin' self-on Christmas Eve, no less-in bed with another woman!" Her hands flew up to either side of her head, Praise Jesus-style.

"No! But, Tante. Dis is a friendly sleep! We didn't-look, we're still wearin' clothes!" Remy stammered, panicking and gesturing helplessly to both himself and Rogue.

"Ah-uhm, hello! Nice...nice t'meet you!" Rogue was also struggling with this unexpected situation she now found herself in. "You must be-Remy's, ah. You're his Tante Mattie! He's told me so much about you!"

Tante Mattie looked at Rogue, gave her a sympathetic look. "Oh, honey, bless your heart."

Rogue knew what that meant, her mouth dropped open. "Bless your heart" in this context was Southern-speak for: _you've made questionable choices that lead me to believe you were dropped on your head as a child._

"Now, I don't blame you for any of this," Mattie said to Rogue kindly. "It's very clear...Who. The. Guilty. Party. Is. Here!" the woman jabbed her finger in Remy's direction to punctuate each word.

Remy held up his hands, trying to shield himself from the onslaught. "I swear on a stack of Bibles, Tatie! We fell asleep talkin', is all!"

Tante Mattie's eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. "Mmn _-hmm._ " Utter disbelief conveyed in a two-syllable sound.

"It's true, ma'am," Rogue said and grinned in a false way. "Ah mean. Uhm. Mah mutant powers prevent me from touchin' anyway!"

Remy looked at Rogue, grinned. "Hey, yeah!" Then he frowned, said disappointedly: "Oh, right..."

Tante Mattie's arms were crossed. It seemed as though their testimony was moving the judge and jury's verdict in their favor. "Here's a thought," she began casually, asking Remy: "How about you stop gettin' yourself into situations that you have to explain your way out of? What d'you think about that?"

"Uh...sounds like pretty good advice…?" Remy said tentatively.

"That I've been givin' you for these last two decades!" Tante Mattie exclaimed. "I might as well be talkin' to a wall!"

"I'm glad t'see you, Tatie," Remy said, testing the waters.

Tante Mattie's expression softened into sadness. "Been gone a long time, Remy. Didn't know where you were half the time."

"That's...probably for de best," Remy said sheepishly.

Mattie shook her head, the beads and shells in her braided hair clacking. "Look at your poor face," she said with resignation. She approached Remy's bedside, put her soft glowing hands to either side of his face. She tsked. "Well, it's not so bad, I suppose. Even from where I am, I can help you some. Can't have you lookin' like a punching bag now."

Remy closed his eyes briefly though he couldn't feel her touch, more of a sensation of warmth. It'd been too long since he'd seen her, it had made memories of her kindnesses easier to try to forget. Now that she was here...sort of...it all came flooding back.

"Did ya come all dis way just t'try and heal me up?" Remy asked her.

"No, baby, I also came to forewarn you."

Remy looked up at Tante's face, no longer angry, but composed and serene. "Not another prophecy! No more portents of doom, please?"

She smiled. "No, I thought I'd better tell you first...your poppa's comin' to collect you." Her expression became stern. "And you'd better have an apology ready for when you see him."

"Yes, ma'am," Remy answered weakly, feeling rather squirmy.

Mattie continued: "You'd best get on your nice clothes to meet him proper."

"Uhm, about dat…" Remy began.

Tante Mattie's eyes narrowed a fraction.

"I kinda had an accident wit' my uniform. It became one wit' de universe."

Mattie's fists went to her hips. "God bless this boy of mine!" Tante Mattie said with exasperation. She waved a hand, as if to stop herself from continuing, placed it over her heart, and drew a steadying breath with eyes closed. "Lord God in Heaven, please grant your humble servant strength and patience!"

She opened her eyes again. "You'll be at my house, Sunday morning. Dressed for Mass, and you'd better have some thoughts ready to share with de priest! You'll be startin' the New Year right!" More indulgently she added: "Also, I got everything bought to make your favorite supper after."

"Yes, Tante," Remy responded faithfully.

Tante Mattie gave him one last tight-lipped smile, shook her head again. Then she looked at Rogue. "Well, young lady. Ain't you just a lovely flower of de South? You can do a lot better than this one here," she said and pointed at Remy.

"He's not so bad," Rogue told her. "Except when he's tryin' to chase people off by bein' as nasty as possible."

"Why'd you go and say that?" Remy hissed at her. "You tryin' ta get me inta even more trouble?"

"What did you say to this poor girl? I ought ta wash your mouth out with soap, Remy! Don't think I won't!"

"I believe you! Your word is Gospel!"

"I hope you have a nice holiday," Mattie said kindly to Rogue. "I'm glad you were a _friend_ to my boy. He could use more _friends_ , in the very platonic sense of de word." Mattie gave her a side-eye glare.

"Merry Christmas ta you, too," Rogue told her, smiling weakly.

Mattie folded her arms across her ample chest and vanished. Remy fell back onto the bed and curled up in fetal position. Rogue patted his shoulder consolingly.

"Ah guess Ah don't blame you for cowerin' now, sugah," Rogue told him. "That was your mama, hunh?"

Remy said from under the pillow: "Mama, auntie, healer, moral compass, God's wrath in human form, all of de above."

"Ah suppose you'd better get ready, get dressed for company."

"If only de earth would swallow me now…"

Rogue climbed off the bed. "You could find somethin' to wear in the room down the hall," she suggested.

Remy sat up, pulled his travel bag from beneath the bed. "Nah, I got somethin' festive." He showed her his favorite shirt.

"That's festive all right," she said, blinking at it. "You sure that's a men's shirt, sugah?"

"It don't have darts in de chest, so I suppose it's for a man," he considered his fleur-de-lys shirt front. Pulled it on over the black tee-shirt he was already wearing.

Rogue smiled and shook her head. When he stood, she fixed the collar. "Maybe you oughta do something about your hair?"

He combed his fingers through it. "Better?"

"What am Ah gonna do with you?"

"I can offer a few creative suggestions...?"

Rogue gave him a poke in the chest. "You'd better keep them to yourself," she scolded.

"I'm sorry, Rogue," he told her abruptly. "I wanted things to be different."

Rogue looked away. "Ah'm sorry, too. Maybe in a different lifetime."

Remy nodded. "A couple of 'em," he agreed. "But not always."

She looked at him with confusion.

"I should probably tell you goodbye now," he added. "Before my family members arrive to dismember me."

"It'll be okay," she assured him. "Ah was right. You _are_ gonna see your family at Christmastime."

"Maybe I can come back for summer school?" he asked. "Make up some credit hours?"

"That'd be nice," Rogue said softly.

Remy drew a steadying breath. "Okay, time t'face de music."

Remy put on his coat from where he'd left it on the foot of the bed, picked up his bag as Rogue opened the door. They were met with the sounds of people gathered in the foyer and parlor below. Christmas music softly played from the kitchen. There was some exclamation at the sound of the doorbell ringing. Remy looked at Rogue, somewhat confused. He sincerely doubted any member of his family would ring a doorbell. A lot of happy cheering was going on in celebration of the new arrival. When Rogue and Remy got to the top of the stairs, they could see Scott Summers in the doorway. He looked a little awkward as he was being repeatedly hugged, patted on the back. Remy found himself grinning, not even Game Face grinning, but for real. He looked at Rogue and she was smiling too. He supposed she wasn't going to stay mad at Scott forever. They started down the staircase.

Jean was slowly making her way towards Scott as the other X-Folks greeted him and then stepped aside.

"Scott!" she said and hugged him. "I'm so glad you're back!"

Scott slowly disengaged from the hug. "Jean. I...I'm glad to see you, too." He adjusted his glasses. "There's something I need to tell you."

Jean looked worried. "What is it?"

Scott looked up at the others gathered in the foyer. Drew a deep breath. "There's a bunch of strange people standing in the front yard. Wearing hoods… And capes. Some of them have swords."

"Oh, Dieu," Remy said, put his hands over his face. Did Jean-Luc send the whole Guild to drag him back home? Maybe he expected Remy to put up a fight.

The X-Ensemble opened both front doors to get a better view of the group gathered on the snow-covered lawn. There appeared about two-dozen people in the yard, halfway between the front steps and the gated fence. Half were standing in regimented order. The other half looked as if they'd been dropped onto the ground as if by a small child setting up a chess set for the first time. One of the members of the disorderly second group raised something in his arms and a crossbow bolt abruptly flew into the foyer to strike the newel post at the foot of the staircase.

"Oh, good, more property damage," Rogue observed. "Can't y'all just come in and not wreck up the place?"

"An attack?" Magnus said, immediately on guard.

Remy was at the base of the stairs. He pulled the bolt free, showing the point to Magnus. "No, not an attack. A message." The bolt was stuck through a playing card, The Joker. The Fool, in this case, a young man dancing along a precipice singing a merry song, blind to the danger he was in. Not a _bad_ card to be associated with, just an unpredictable one.

"I'm a wanted man," Remy said, looking at it.

Jean looked at the loosely assembled group outside. "Is this your-family?" she asked Remy.

"Half of them are," Remy peered over the heads of those gathered in the foyer, trying to figure out which of the hooded figures was which.

"Maybe they'd like to come in?" Jean suggested.

"What are they doing just standing out there?" Scott asked, watching through the side window.

"I'm gonna guess: caroling," Remy said in a dull tone.

"Very amusing-," Magnus began when someone on the lawn blew a pitch pipe.

Half the group outdoors sang: " _Douce nuit...Sainte Nuite. Tout est calme...plus de bruit. C'est Noël et là-bas dans le ciel. Une étoile d'un éclat irréel...Brille au loin sur le monde...Comme un beau rêve infinit!_ " before descending into laughter.

"You're flat, Emil," commented a voice.

"Cram it wit' roasted chestnuts, Theo!" presumably the one named Emil shouted back. He then called: "Hey, Reh- _Me_! Where y'at!?"

"Awrite!" Remy called back.

"We freezin' our butts off out here!"

Ororo came forward to the open doors fully and beckoned to those in the yard. "Please, come in."

"Where is a sinkhole when you need one?" Remy asked himself. Rogue put a reassuring hand on his arm. Remy called to Ororo: "You can leave de assassins out dere, for all I care."

"Did he just say 'assassins'?" Bobby asked Logan in an undertone.

Logan looked at Remy with consternation. "These the 'bodyguards'?" he asked.

Remy shrugged.

Unfortunately, the assassins were also invited in, though Remy had no idea why they were there. Ritualized hazing, perhaps? Remy saw both his father and his ex-father-in-law approach the doorway at the same time. They both looked at one another for a moment and Remy was for certain there was about to be a chalk-drawn outline on the front step by tomorrow. But Jean-Luc gave a brief bow in Marius' direction and indicated he should be first to enter. This just seemed to make Marius' normally irritable expression look even more irritated.

Jean-Luc smiled a charming smile. "Après-vous," he said. Bear-poking.

The two contingent Guilds filed in, with assassins flanking the right side of the doorway, thieves on the left. Once inside, the doors were closed behind them. Jean was thoughtful enough to offer drinks. Thieves happily accepted the offer. The assassins were far more reticent, still wearing their hooded capes (probably to better conceal their weapons). Remy spotted only two friendly faces amongst the thieves, not including his father who normally wore no expression whatsoever when dealing with his youngest son.

Jean-Luc bowed slightly in Ororo's direction as he approached her. "These thieves thank you for your invitation. We gratefully accept your hospitality. I assure you no stealing of silverware will occur."

Ororo smiled warmly at him as he glanced up at her, gave her a wink. Remy frowned, his dad could be annoyingly charming.

"Just keep an eye on dat one," said the sole female thief to Ororo, pointing at a man with strawberry blond hair and more freckles than skin.

"Hey!" Dat One objected with mock offense.

"Welcome," Magnus told the two Guild leaders, he looked in Remy's father's direction. "Jean-Luc? We spoke on the phone."

"I recognize your voice, monsieur. A pleasure. Thank you for your message regarding my wayward son. I'm glad to see he's not suffered too badly for having been poked full of holes…?"

Remy gave his father a weak wave. The man was decked out in full Guild regalia, tunic, family crest, rank and file marked out on his sleeves, cape and cowl, the works. Hair pulled neatly back from his face in a long tail down his back. This was very strange that he should show up at the School, amidst outsiders, in such a getup. Remy had made efforts not to mention the Guild. Now he had a sinking suspicion this was going to be a formal visit.

"Fully recovered," Hank said, looking now with curiosity at Remy's no-longer-beaten face. "By some miracle."

"Likely our traiteur's doing," Jean-Luc said as an aside. He continued to address Magnus. "We owe you and your people a life-debt, for saving my son's life, restoring him to good health. De United Guilds of New Orleans pledge our loyalty and services to you and yours. Both for his life, and in recompense for de trouble Remy no doubt caused while he was here."

"I think what he means t'say is dat next time you're down New Orleans way, drinks are on us," Remy said and Jean-Luc shot him a look that showed he was only slightly amused.

"Did he say 'guilds'?" Bobby asked Logan.

"I'm not your hearing aid!" Logan grouched back.

"I don't know that that is neces-," Magnus began, but then Rogue, where she was still standing on the staircase, plucked a foam dove from the Christmas tree and threw it at the back of his head. He turned to look up at her. She shook her head, giving him a warning not to refuse the offer. "Thank you," Magnus said to Jean-Luc instead. "Your offer is gratefully accepted."

"My-associate-does not speak for our Guild," Marius announced and Remy rolled his eyes. "For one, we- _ow!_ "

One of the Assassins' Guild members had stomped on his foot. "Adults are speaking, daddy," she hissed. At the sound of her voice, Remy suddenly felt as if he'd been frozen on the spot.

Jean-Luc looked at his son. "We're just here t'give our thanks to your friends. You can stay if you want. But I'd like to offer you your old job back."

Remy tore his eyes away from the small hooded figure at Marius' side. He told his father: "'Preciate that, but hope you can understand if I say 'no.' On account of I will never work for Candra again in any way, shape or form."

"Candra is dead," Jean-Luc said, simply, brutally.

"Good riddance!" someone called, Remy wasn't sure if it was a thief or assassin this time.

Remy felt another wave of shock. "What? _How?_ I didn't think she _could_ die."

"I'm sure she'll pop up again...in some way, shape or form," Jean-Luc said idly. "But for now, we forge our own destiny, choose our own path. And she's not de boss of me!"

Remy almost laughed at that. He looked at Jean-Luc, then Marius. "But, did someone kill her?"

"Weh," Jean-Luc confirmed. "En Sabah Nur. Ended _her_ days. And hopefully, she took our existence and whereabouts to her grave."

"En Sabah what now?"

"De Daywalker...? Remy, it's spelled out in Book Seven of de Old Kingdom texts," Jean-Luc said in a dully exasperated tone.

"I might've mistranslated dat to 'Day Tripper.'"

Jean-Luc made a hand gesture that said: I give up. Moving on. "Anyway, we're prepared to restore your status, rank, and all privileges dat affords you. Of course, you're welcome to come back to our clan regardless of your choice."

"Did he just say cl-."

"Bobby!" Logan shouted.

"But not like, the...you know, kinda clan that starts with a K?"

"You got an answer, there son?" Jean-Luc prompted.

Remy threw another dove at Bobby's head, then looked at his father. "Well...If I was just a regular jerk, I'd say no."

"What kind of response is that?" Marius asked loudly, affronted.

"I think it's a yes, and it's about as good an answer as we're likely to get," Jean-Luc said, drolly.

"I have drinks!" Jean announced. She'd enlisted a cadre of young mutants to assist. They filed into the foyer, crowding it all the more.

"Thank God!" someone called.

"Shh! Shut up! You're makin' us look like a buncha fools!"

"Hey, dere's a piano in here!" Emil called from the sitting room. He immediately started banging on the keys. "Hey, kids, sing along if ya know dis one! _Grandma got run over by a reindeer…!"_

"I told you to keep an eye on him!"

"I'm _not_ a babysitter! I outrank you! You go watch him."

" _Walkin' home from our house Christmas Eve!_ "

"Does anyone know who this guy is?" asked a New Mutant in the sitting room.

"I think it's one of Gambit's relatives," replied another.

"Okay, that makes sense."

" _You may think there's no such thing as Santa…!_ "

"I hope there's liquor in dis punch."

"I brought extra if dere's not."

Remy made his way over to Jean-Luc. "Merry Christmas," Remy told him.

"Dat all you got to say?"

"I'm also very sorry."

Jean-Luc waved the apology away. "Forgiven. Forgotten about. I was thinkin' maybe you'd give me an 'I missed you' but was hopin' for an 'I love you.'"

"Why not both?" Remy shrugged. "Are we huggin' now or what?"

"Dat's my job!" Henri announced and despite being half a foot shorter than Remy, lifted him off his feet in a bear hug.

"Put me down, you're embarrassin' me," Remy said, a laugh squeezed out of him.

"I didn't think that was possible! But if so, I think Mercy brought along some of Tante's baby photos of you, just in case we needed leverage."

Remy was confronted by his sister-in-law, Mercy. "You big stupid idiot," was her greeting.

"Thanks for de winter hat you sent."

"I thought you'd like the color."

Remy was seized by the back of his jacket and dragged backwards into the Christmas tree. Emil kissed him full on the mouth and announced: "Mistletoe!"

"Ack, _God-Emil!_ " Remy scrubbed his mouth with his sleeve.

"Anyone got any requests for what I play next? How about Mariah Carey?"

"Can I _please_ stab him?" asked an assassin.

"We're guests here. Stab him on de way home."

" _I don't want a lot for Christmas…there is just one thing I need..._ "

"Okay, lissen up you bunch of dumb-dumbs," announced one of the assassins and she clapped her hands. "I got a special task for y'all." She opened the right-side door. "First one of you who brings me a horn from Daredevil's head gets a special Christmas bonus!"

The assassins were all poised in anticipation. Their leader held up her hand. "On de condition he stays alive, and dat also means no fatal wounds either. He's too cute t'die." She paused. "Also don't hit him in de face. Or de butt."

"Okay, now get out!" she yelled and pointed to the exit. "No, not _you_ , daddy."

The foyer emptied of a dozen bodies, thankfully all of them living. The remaining visitors were offered food and guided to the kitchen. Apparently disappointed that the show was not going to continue, several others departed to rejoin the party. Remaining by the Christmas tree were Remy and his father, Marius and his daughter, Logan, Ororo, Rogue and Magnus.

Belle finally lowered her hood, looked at Remy.

"What'd you do to your hair, stupid?" he asked her.

"What'd you do to yours, ugly?" she responded.

"Cut it."

"Took it out of braids. It's not humid here like back home."

"Before I was rudely interrupted," Marius said, glaring at his daughter, but talking to Jean-Luc. "You don't have the authority to promise our services to anyone."

"We have a pact," Jean-Luc replied in a civilized but bored tone.

"The pact no longer exists," Marius retorted. "We are only here to ensure you don't grant your _son_ any more leeway than you already have!"

"Somebody better tell Hank t'bring de first aid kit," Remy told Logan.

"The pact is mine to restore," Belle interrupted. Marius glowered at her. She assumed a superior expression. "Remy LeBeau, do you wish to resume our partnership, restore our family's pact, embrace your destiny, and accept all responsibilities and _all_ benefits of our union?"

Remy's eyes flicked from Belle to her father and back again. "Is dis a trick or somethin'? Is there an answer I can give dat won't get me stabbed?"

"Oh, I am _very mad_ at you," Belle told him in a delighted tone. "And I intend t'kick your butt from here back t'New Orleans and then some. But I promise I won't stab you. At least not anywhere it shows."

Belle's violet eyes went to Logan. "Hullo, dere," she said, her eyes traveled down, then back up (but not too high up). "Why, I wouldn't even have to get a crick in my neck to kiss you, now would I?"

"Belle!" Marius snapped.

"You're dismissed," Belle waved her hand at her father in a shoo-shoo gesture.

Logan smiled broadly. "Nice to meet you, darlin'," he said. "So you're the skirt that tamed the Cajun?"

"Housebroke, more like."

"Oh, brother," Rogue rolled her eyes. "Ah'm leavin' now. Nice meetin' y'all."

Belle put a hand out to stop Rogue from departing. "Hold your hawses, there," she said. Remy was prepared to throw himself into the fray when Belle continued: "Jean-Luc might've promised a life-debt to y'all, but I owe you a heart-debt, _sugah_."

Rogue considered Belle, her expression one of confusion.

"For pickin' up de pieces of this poor broken boy," Belle added. "And puttin' him back together."

"How-what do you…?" Rogue asked, concerned.

"Oh, our Tante Mattie," Belle said with a smile. "Likes to keep an eye on him from time ta time. She says it's almost as good as watchin' her daytime stories, but the plotlines are less believable."

Rogue was blushing. Remy was mortified, which was something of a new experience for him.

"I ain't even mad," Belle said, shot Remy a look, then returned her gaze to Rogue. "At _you_ anyway."

Remy grimaced.

"You didn't answer me about de pact," Belle said to Remy, vaguely threatening.

"I do, Belle," Remy said. He didn't look at Rogue.

Belle held out her hand and made a grabbing motion. "Gimme de keys to Loretta. She's in de garage, no?"

Reluctantly, Remy reached into his pocket. When the keys appeared, she snatched them from his grip. "Dis all your stuff? Leave it wit' Jean-Luc. Have him burn it. Meet me outside when you're through here."

Before she flounced off, Belle added: "There sure are an awful lotta handsome menfolk here. Makes me start to wonder if I don't qualify as a 'gifted youngster' myself!"

"Can't you control your daughter, Marius?" Jean-Luc asked in a blasé tone, pretending to brush something from his sleeve.

"Shut up, old man," Marius snapped and turned to follow Belle.

"Stick in de Mud," Jean-Luc said after the front door slammed. "I apologize for his rude behavior. Completely uncivilized."

He continued: "Remy, I brought a gift for you, too. I can't give you back de time you spent workin' for dat hag, Candra, but I can give you something to make up for lost time. For you and Belle." He extended a hand in Remy's direction, something was held loosely in his fist. Remy gave his father a curious look and held out his own hand to receive whatever Jean-Luc held. A pair of vials dropped into his palm, filled with some kind of greenish liquid. Remy's expression was a mix of trepidation and confusion.

"What…?"

"I'll explain in less polite company," Jean-Luc said.

The doorbell rang again. "Now what?" Logan asked and marched to the door. He opened it to reveal the town Sheriff and his dog.

Both Remy and his father were suddenly very still, eyes watchful.

"Good evening," the Sheriff said. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Logan stepped back to allow the man to enter. Rogue shifted nervously next to Magnus. Maybe he wouldn't be recognized wearing a Santa hat and holiday sweater?

"Happy holidays," Ororo told the man. "I hope you have not gone out of your way to visit."

"Ma'am," the Sheriff began and removed his hat. "I'm afraid I have some troubling news to share. There seems to have been some kind of accident at a nearby apartment. It doesn't look like the place was up to code. According to the landlady, a man matching the description of your student was the only resident."

"Oh," Ororo said. "Thank you for informing us, however-."

"We...found quite a lot of blood on the scene. We're searching the woods now, but it seems he was taken by vehicle. Perhaps by force."

The dog barked, leapt up and pulled at his lead. Remy shrank back into the fir tree and the ornaments shook.

"Chip, stop it now. Sit."

The dog continued to bark at Remy. "Uh...I'm just gonna-," Remy cast about for a means to escape.

"Our student, that is, Remy," Ororo was talking loudly over the barking dog. "He is-."

Chip launched himself at the thief, pulled himself free of the Sheriff's grip and charged.

"Aaugh!" Remy cried and tried to hide behind the tree. "Why do bad things keep happening t'me!"

The dog jumped on him, drove him to the floor, started vigorously licking his face.

"M'aidez!"

"Chip! Down!" the Sheriff yelled and threw a red rubber bone across the foyer so hard it squeaked. Chip gave up his quarry and ran after the toy.

"I am so sorry!" the Sheriff said, and offered a hand to help Remy stand. "Are you alright?"

Ororo approached. "Sir, this is Remy. He is perfectly safe. You can call off your search."

The Sheriff looked Remy over carefully. "You sure you're okay, son?"

"Fine, fine, just keep that dog away from me!" Remy said, wiping dog slobber off his chin. "Disgustin'! Almost as bad as Emil."

The Sheriff adjusted the radio on the front of his coat. Shook his head, half relieved. "Well, this is a real gift. I can send my people home now. Glad you're okay. Chip! Heel!"

The dog trotted over, happily chomping his bone. The Sheriff placed his hat back on his head. "Anyways, you have a nice holiday. Sorry for the slobber. Take better care of yourself."

Logan saw the man to the exit and closed the door. "This party is actually turning out to be fun," he said.

"Says you!" Remy complained.

"Your family is welcome to stay the evening," Magnus told Remy.

"Merci boo-coo," Jean-Luc answered. "I'd take you up on de offer, but we've already requested sanctuary from de New York Guild. Believe me, rather stay here than with that bunch of stuck-up snobs."

" _Poppa_ ," Remy said in a falsely scandalized tone.

"Stop by Strange's place on de way and see if we can't get him drunk," Jean-Luc continued. "We only got 'til dawn, and some of de kids wanted to visit Wall Street, steal Charging Bull and throw it into de East River."

"How ever will you manage that?" Ororo asked.

"Levitation spell," Jean-Luc shrugged.

"Vive la résistance!" Remy said.

"About this En Sabah Nur person," Magnus asked. "Should be we concerned? You say he murdered a woman who could not otherwise be killed? A mutant?"

"External," Jean-Luc specified. "And I'd say anyone goin' 'round callin' himself 'Apocalypse' is cause for concern, yeah."

The remaining X-Men regarded one another with worried expressions.

Remy's Harley was roaring in the front drive. "I think that's my ride," he said.

Remy was followed to the front doors. Outside he saw Belle seated on his bike. He called: "Hey, sha, don't be treating her so rough. She's got a delicate constitution."

"Who says a woman wants to be treated gentle? Get on de back!" she pointed her thumb to the seat behind her.

Remy turned back, regarded the X-Men. "Guess dat's all for now folks," he said. "Later, 'gators."

"You will come back," Ororo informed him.

"Provide notice well ahead of time," Magnus intoned.

"Cajun," Logan said and attempted to crush his hand in a handshake.

"Bye, sugah," Rogue said. "Guess it's still: thief first, hunh? Favorite youngest son second?"

"Weh, sometimes I tell de whole truth," Remy raised his sore hand in farewell before trotting down the steps to the motorcycle. "Merry Christmas!"

"What's dat on your head, ugly?" Belle called over the sound of the motorcycle.

Remy was pulling his new hat down over his ears. "Mercy sent me a hat."

"It's purple."

"I'd call it 'plum'."

"You're _plumb_ loco if you think you're wearin' dat in public. You look like a giant penis." Belle tossed him a helmet. Remy nearly missed catching it, laughing as he was.

Remy threw one leg over the bike. Ororo gasped. "Those are my boots!" she cried.

"Belle! Punch it!" Remy ordered as Ororo began down the steps.

"Invite your handsome friend t'visit," Belle said idly. "De one that looks like Charlton Heston. Will Penny."

"I thought de same thing!" Remy said. Ororo had reached the bottom of the steps. Belle squeaked the bike forward a few yards.

"Enh! Logan!" Remy shouted.

"End of February!" Logan called.

"Return my boots this instant!" Ororo called and began running after them, however, she had dressed for the occasion in tight leather pants and high heels, so her mobility was somewhat limited.

"Au revoir, mes amis!" Remy called, and the bike roared down the drive, fishtailing slightly as it turned down the drive. Remy flashed a peace sign, hand extended low to his side.

Ororo shouted: "Stop, thief!"

Remy's arms were outstretched as Belle turned onto Graymalkin. They tore off down the street, a faint song following them: _I'm not the man they think I am at home… Oh, no no no! I'm a rocket man..._

"Well, dat's a disaster waitin' to happen," Jean-Luc commented, watching them depart. He looked at Rogue, smiled a half-smile and raised an eyebrow. "Hey, girl."

"Uh, no," she held up a finger. "You're very handsome, but no."

"Off my game," Jean-Luc said to himself, then abruptly asked: "Emil?"

"Yup!" Emil suddenly appeared, eating a cookie.

"Get de others. Time t'go."

"HEY, KIDS! WE GOIN'!"

"Out," Jean-Luc pointed at the exit, hand over his ringing ear. "Enh, why didn't I ask for Genard instead?" Emil bounced out the front door. He was followed by two more thieves. Jean-Luc counted them as they passed.

"...Five, six, seven….Eight. Okay, where's nine? I'm gonna have a _Home Alone_ situa-ation here. Nine. Who else we got? Genard!"

"Got her number," Genard said as he dashed past.

"Good lad," Jean-Luc told him.

"Where's de rental?"

"Mercy parked it in de ditch, we gotta push it out."

"I never drove in snow before!"

"Crazy women drivers! _Ow_! OW! Do _not_ throw snow!"

"I call shotgun!"

"Stop wit' de snowballs!"

"You hit me in de glasses, asshole!"

Jean-Luc rubbed an eye tiredly. "Y'all don't have some kinda portal or teleportation thing, do you?"

"Not at the moment," Magnus informed him.

"Dis is gonna be a long trip back. And to think, you only had t'deal wit' _one_ of dem."

Jean-Luc didn't flinch when he was struck in the chest with a snowball.

" _Emil!_ " someone scolded.

"It wasn't me, it was Henri!" Emil shouted.

"Who, _me_?"

Jean-Luc stepped onto the front steps, brushed snow from his uniform. "That's enough! I won't have dis insubordination! You-! Fall in line! Get in de van! None of you are to speak-!" The Guild patriarch was struck with another snowball. "Henri. Alain. _LeBeau!_ I am gonna beat your butt!" Jean-Luc scooped up his own snowball and fired back.

Several thieves screamed: "Run away!"

Ororo closed the door hurriedly before several more snowballs struck it. The shouts, laughter, and pleas for mercy eventually faded as the thieves disappeared into the night.

"They seem…" Ororo began.

"Deranged?" Magnus offered.

"Like they know how to have a good time," Logan said.

"Unorthodox. I have a better understanding now...of our friend Remy," Ororo said fairly.

Rogue didn't know what to say. Remy was gone. She thought she should have taken his hand when he offered. She would have seen what he really wanted. He wasn't going to tell Belle 'no' after all, or refuse to leave with his family. Rogue reconsidered her choice now. To have touched him, one last time, to see if she was the one he really wanted to choose. Then again, maybe not. Maybe she wouldn't have seen anything at all...she might have simply held his hand. Rogue recovered the two turtle doves from the floor, used her flight to return them to their places on the tree. She tried to repair the damage to the lower branches, pick up fallen ornaments. The disaster from when Remy had been jumped by the police dog. Logan soon joined her.

"You alright, darlin'?" he asked.

Rogue smiled ruefully. "Yeah, Logan. Just don't give me any of that: 'I told you so,' business."

"Wasn't going to," Logan said, and picked up an ornament. Before he could place it back onto the tree it disintegrated into shards. "I don't think he was messing with you, Rogue. I think he's just a kid who knew he'd messed up, who wanted to do better. Kinda like someone else I know."

"It only takes gettin' possessed ta see the light!" Rogue tried to joke. "That darn thief went and stole mah heart."

"I think it went both ways."

"Yeah," Rogue said softly. "In any case, Ah didn't go away empty-handed. He gave me somethin' in return."

"What's that? A hickey?"

Rogue shook her head, rolled her eyes with amused annoyance. "Logan, do you trust me?" she asked.

"Of course."

Rogue pulled off one of her gloves. Held her hand out in Logan's direction. He looked at her, eyes uncertain, but gave her his hand in return. Rogue held his hand in her own for a long time, feeling his strong fingers wrapped around hers. She gave him a hard squeeze, pumped his hand in a rough handshake. She grinned at him.

"How?" Logan asked, looking at their clasped hands.

"Ororo said there was a difference between thinkin' and _knowin'_. Ah _thought_ Ah might be able touch you. But Ah _know_ Ah'd never hurt you. This is mah body. Ah won't let anyone tell me what to do with it. Ah won't let anyone hurt me, try and make me be afraid of mah own self."

"Logan, Ah'm not scared anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw...you mad? Did you think I was going to let them just BE TOGETHER when there's two more whole books to get through? C'mon! Anyway, see below for preview of the next book: Dealing with a Devil.
> 
> Random References:  
> The thieves sing the French version of Silent Night  
> Rocket Man - Elton John  
> Dialogue stolen from X-Men #8:  
> "So you're the skirt that tamed the Cajun?"  
> "Housebroke, more like."
> 
> I started writing another story after I'd finished Dealing with a Devil. It's an action story with some elements of mystery and horror. Look for it soon, it's called Grasp The Nettle.
> 
> Preview for Dealing with a Devil, contains spoilers.
> 
> She thought maybe she'd like more time like this...without any strange portents or prophecies hanging over their heads. To enjoy a quiet moment in a park just like everyone else. Rogue was now holding one of his hands, her face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, made warm from his body and basking in the sun. She could feel the heat of the sun against the top of her own head, since she'd moved from her place in the shade beneath the tree to be closer to him. Drew in the smell of him, a little different since he'd stopped smoking, but still a warm, masculine, resin-like scent. She felt his chin against the crown of her head, listened to his breathing and the sounds of the park around them. Remy's other hand rested on her back, arm still hugging her. Slowly, Rogue pulled away, put his hand she held to the side of her face. She closed her eyes, enjoyed the brush of his fingertips just touching her ear and hairline, his dry palm against her cheek. Rogue turned her mouth to his palm, pressed her lips there. Her eyes rose to meet his, hopeful about what she might see. Was it okay? Should she be doing this?
> 
> It was hard to read his expression. He leaned forward, kissed her forehead. Chastely, she thought. Maybe she'd misread the heated look he'd given her, the tickling blade of grass up the back of her calf and thigh. Rogue gazed over his shoulder across the park, seeing others strolling, picnicking, walking dogs. A woman sat on a park bench facing away from them to look at the lake. Her hair was dark red. When she turned, it seemed she was looking directly at Rogue. The figure returned her gaze to the lake. Rogue thought her profile familiar and she jolted suddenly with surprise. A crackle, a sting like static on the side of her face where Remy's skin met hers. She drew back suddenly.
> 
> "Sorry, sorry," she said quietly. "Ah didn't mean-."
> 
> Remy's thoughts in her mind: Is this right? Should I be doing this?
> 
> Rogue looked up to Remy's face again, studying him carefully.
> 
> "Y'awrite?" he asked quietly.
> 
> She nodded, her eyes went back to the bench. It was empty.
> 
> "I guess you're outta practice," Remy told her softly.
> 
> She gave a chagrined smile. "Ah guess so."
> 
> "I could help you warm up...?" His devilish smile returned. "If you're thinkin' you'd like to play ball again?"
> 
> "Ah'm feelin' pretty warm already," she said, and slipped off her blouse, revealing her strapless top.
> 
> The tingling lines his fingers left on her bare skin made her shiver, even in the hot sun.


End file.
